The Sixth Victim
by M. Willow
Summary: A vision of the future holds the key for the guys who are in a race against time before someone becomes the sixth victim.  Story now complete.
1. Part 1

**The Sixth Victim**

**By M. Willow**

_**Story plot: A vision of the future holds the key for the guys who are in a race against time before someone becomes the sixth victim.**_

**Part One**

_**Chapter One**_

The soft strands of _Tennessee Waltz_ played as the two people twirled around the floor. It was a hot evening, sultry really, but the dancers seemed oblivious to the stifling heat. The soft fragrance of jasmine mingled with the stale air of the tiny room. The woman swayed as a wave of dizziness nearly swept her off her feet. She wanted to stop dancing, but her partner moved her even faster, almost out of step with the music, her long pink dress of satin and lace brushing against her ankles as they danced as one. The man, dressed in top hat and tails, held the woman close. His possession of her unmistakable.

He sang softly in her ear. "_I was dancin' with my darlin' to the Tennessee Waltz …_" She tensed as she heard his melodic voice. "_when an old friend I happened to see_." The music stopped, but the man continued to sing. "_I introduced him to my loved one_, _and while they were dancing my friend stole my sweet-heart from me." _ The woman tried to break from his embrace, but his grip was tight and she was growing weaker. "_I remember the night and the Tennessee waltz…_"

She struggled now, her heart beating wildly, her eyes scanning the room for help.

"_Now I know just how much I have lost…_"

The song would end soon. She had to get away before that happened. She'd already seen the pink scarf, knew that he would use it to kill her. But how could she possibly break free? She was weak, tired, dizzy. And she was alone. No one could help her. She would have to find a way out or die. So as they danced she focused on the room.

It was a large room, the hardwood floors reflecting the many candles that provided the only light. The room held no furniture, nothing graced the walls. It was a room without character, almost as if it had been abandoned long ago, the love and character banished with the passing years. Now she noticed the smell of decay, heavy, cloying, mixing with the jasmine she wore. It nearly made her gag, but she forced her mind back to the problem at hand—she had to get away before it was too late. And getting away wouldn't be easy. He frightened her, but the candles more so. They were surrounded by them, tiny dots of light that danced as if they too could hear the music.

It was seconds before she noticed the man had stopped singing. He stood there now, indistinct in the candlelight. She could feel his eyes on her. She was dead and knew it. She closed her eyes, knowing what was coming, feeling her heart lurch. And then the scarf, so soft, satin and lace like the dress was placed around her neck.

April woke gasping for breath. It was the same nightmare she'd had several times over the past two years. They were always the same: the couple dancing. The fear the woman felt, followed by her death. April touched her throat, the nightmare still vividly clinging to her, making her feel that she was the woman who'd died.

In the beginning she hadn't been concerned, thought that the dreams were just a response to the stress of being an enforcement agent. But then the nightmares continued, each making her feel a part of the world the woman lived in. Yet, she did not know her which was a horror in itself.

April's psychic abilities were always centered on those she knew. So she had come to believe that she was seeing the past, a glimpse into the death of an unknown woman--a woman who died at the hands of a madman. It was always so with her visions. If the vision occurred when she was awake, it meant it was happening in real-time, sort of the way she'd glimpsed Illya behind the wall when he'd nearly died over a year ago. But if they occurred in the form of a dream, it meant the event had already occurred and lingered like an echo.

If only she could see the faces of the man and woman, she thought, but then dismissed the idea when she realized that knowing who the woman was wouldn't prevent a death that had already occurred.

She stood on shaky legs, grabbing the headboard for support, cursing herself for being so weak. She was trembling, her eyes darting around the room as if she expected to see the man there. Deep inside, April had a nagging feeling that she was the woman in her nightmares, and that they were really a glimpse into her future. She'd fought the idea for many months, telling herself that she wasn't precognitive, that she could no more see the future than anyone else. But in the night, when she felt the heat of the sultry room, smelled the scent of jasmine, she knew who the woman was in her dreams.

April looked about her bedroom, observing the shimmering moonlight as it threaded through the curtains. She had only recently moved to the UNCLE secured building at the urging of her best friend, and CEA, Napoleon Solo. He had insisted once she told him of her disturbing nightmares. She had decided it was the best choice, partially because she wanted to move anyhow, and partially because she enjoyed the company of Solo who lived in the penthouse apartment. Often after his dates he would stop by and they would talk into the wee hours of the night. It was an easy companionship, allowing them to be open with each other without fear of judgment. April could cry with him, tell him how afraid she was on this or that mission, all without the threat of judgment. And he could do the same.

But now she was weak, weak and scared out of her wits, for if she were seeing the future, she was already dead.

April groped for her shoes. Finding them, she padded into the kitchen. She quickly turned on the light, letting her fear recede into the nightmare world she'd left. Now she made her way over to the sink, turning on the water, and splashing cool water on her face. She wanted to stay awake, needed to really. She couldn't bare another nightmare, not tonight when her heart was beating so loudly she could hear it.

April busied herself preparing coffee and going over the nightmare in her mind. The woman had been afraid of the fire. She'd also been afraid of the man, desperately seeking a way to escape both. But she didn't have a chance because the man had strangled her. Thinking about it, April realized that not one single thing had changed from one nightmare to the next. No matter how much she wanted the woman to live, it always ended the same.

The coffee was ready, so April poured the steaming brew into a cup and added two lumps of sugar. She sat the steaming mug on the kitchen table with a trembling hand. A sudden knock at the door startled her. Her mind searched for her late night interloper, felt the familiarity.

"Napoleon," she mouthed, a smile already coming to her face.

She could always sense his presence. She looked down at her attire. The gown she wore was hardly see-through, but certainly displayed her figure to its best advantage. She thought of going to her room to get the robe she'd left on her bedside chair, but felt ridiculous after everything they'd been through together. He'd seen her dressed and undressed. It was always the problem with missions, trying to keep a level of modesty which simply wasn't possible when you were dodging bullets and trying to save the world. She and Napoleon had slept in the same bed, watched each other's back, tended to each others wounds. She was paired with him more than any other agent with the exception of Mark. In all that time, he'd maintained a level of professionalism, never gawking at her body the way some male agents did.

She headed for the door, only to see him coming in, key in hand, his face darkened with concern. They'd exchanged keys when she'd moved in. They were family, sharing a life that left no secrets. She sighed in relief when she saw him. He was dashing in a black tuxedo which meant he was either leaving or returning from a date. One never knew with the debonair Napoleon Solo.

"April, I was starting to get worried when you didn't answer," he said, turning the security system off and crossing the room to stand in front of her.

"Just who's the psychic here?" she asked as he gave her a peck on the cheek, and took a seat on the sofa, loosening his bow tie and propping his legs up on the cocktail table.

"You are, sweetheart, but lately I'm starting to wonder---" Napoleon trailed off, but they both knew what he was about to say. Lately, his sense of her was starting to cross into the realm of the paranormal. He wasn't capable of seeing things like she could, but could sense her emotions even if they were in separate rooms. It was a strange situation—April was the psychic, her visions playing as if they were movies. But she couldn't see anything unless it was within a few short miles of her. Sure, she would have an uneasy feeling sometimes, but for the most part her abilities were limited. But Napoleon was emotionally tied to her. Therefore every nightmare she had affected Solo as well. Which was probably why he was there at three o'clock in the morning, she thought.

"Unnerving isn't it." April said, but it wasn't a question. Living your life with visions and feelings you couldn't explain for most of your life was daunting. Finding that you had this ability later in life had to be even more so.

Napoleon patted the seat next to him, beckoning her to sit down. When she did, his arms enfolded her and she laid her head on his shoulder. For a few moments nothing was said, but a communication of sorts took place that required no words. Eventually, April noticed her shaking had ceased and a sense of peace settled over her.

"I'm okay." She said, sensing the silent question.

"Let's talk." Napoleon said, releasing her from his arms, and regarding her with his deep brown eyes.

But she wasn't ready to talk yet. She needed something to calm her nerves. Needed something that would make it easier to tell him she was dying. For in her heart she knew that her visions were both the past and her future. And the man who'd murdered the woman would kill her one day.

"I need something strong," she said, standing and making her way to the bar.

He said nothing as she prepared two martinis. It was always their custom that if one drank, so did the other. She used to joke that she felt like Emma Peel to his Steed whenever they did that, but it was really a way of sharing, of saying to the other you are not alone.

She returned to the sofa and handed him his drink, then both took healthy sips. April could feel the warmth as it spread through her body. She was sitting on the edge of the sofa, her back ramrod straight as she looked down into the clear liquid, her mind in turmoil. How do you tell your best friend you're dying?

"How bad are the dreams?" he asked, slicing through her indecision.

She turned and met his eyes, her tears so close to the surface. She didn't want to breakdown in front of him. She didn't want it to end this way. Her death should come fighting to save the world, standing side by side with a fellow agent, not at the hands of a madman.

A shuddered passed through her as she felt death creeping closer, filling her with its scent of decay. She felt the warmth of Napoleon's hands as he sat forward, tilting her head with his large hands, searching her eyes for the truth. In that instant another hand reached out to her.

"I was thinking of the dream," she stammered, feeling the icy tendrils of the nightmare clinging to every word.

The room seemed to settle, the colors becoming distinct, blindingly vivid. The man who sat before her now dissolved as if he'd never been there. She inhaled deeply, steeling herself for a vision.

Now another man was pressing his body against hers, his rough hands touching the soft satin of the dress. She smelled the jasmine scent and opened her eyes to see shadow and light, and what seemed like a thousand candles danced around them in a circle. And there was music that floated in the air, a strange haunting quality to it. It took her a few moments to recognize _Tennessee Waltz_.

"_I was dancin' with my darlin' to the Tennessee waltz…_" She could feel his arms tightening, pulling her closer, nearly taking her breath away. "_when an old friend I happened to see…_" She struggled to see the man, but his face was indistinct.

"_I introduced him to my loved one…_"

April concentrated on the man, the sound of the music becoming a roar in her mind. She felt her body moving around the room, the heat becoming intense, her fear welling inside her. It was difficult, but she brought her mind back to the man again, seeking to see his face, but it was as if she danced with a fathom—a man with no face, a man filled with darkness impenetrable to the eye.

Her breath caught as she sought his emotions, and then she was going deeper, deeper, seeking the thing that made him human. His emotions filled her at once, as if a thousand knives penetrated her soul. Now they were soul to soul and she felt his pain, his hatred for the woman who he held in his arms. In the center was his desire to possess her or see her destroyed? And then a blinding light filled the room and a thousand candles blazed as one.

She heard a voice, tense, calling out to her. Her soul reached out, flying to the other world, feeling the safety, the love, of one Napoleon Solo.

"I thought I had lost you," Napoleon said, his voice deep against the impenetrable silence of the room.

Napoleon had seen her have visions, but this one was different. He could feel her terror deep within himself. He could only imagine what she'd seen.

"Was it like your nightmare?" he asked, his voice soft.

April leaned into him, trembling. He pulled her to him, his arms encircling her, holding on for dear life to keep her in this world. Whatever she'd seen in her vision had been horrifying. He had to make certain she didn't have another one, so he held on tight.

"Yes," she said. "And now I know they're real,"

The words sent a shiver through his body. She'd told him about the nightmares. But they hadn't been visions, merely a story that repeated without end. He'd had nightmares like that himself—dreams so real that he ached with the force of them. They'd been remnants of missions, transformed in his nightmare world. But he was not April.

"You just seem to fade," he said, feeling the words inadequate for what he had felt—terror, sheer terror.

April looked around the room almost as if she doubted her return from the vision. He said nothing when she stood and slowly inspected her apartment, her hands gliding over the smoothness of the fireplace, moving to the wingback chair that sat next to it. And then on to the bar, it's stark whiteness blending with the neutral colors of the room. And then she was standing at the window.

Outside he could see the sun had replaced the moon, the sky changing into a delicious shade of mauve.

"How long was I out?" she finally asked as he slipped up behind her. She leaned into him as his arms encircled her, feeling the rose petal softness of her skin.

"About two hours," he whispered.

Time moved at a different pace in April's visions. An hour could feel like five minutes, but Napoleon felt like he'd witness eternity.

"Two hours," she said. "It felt like five minutes."

She turned, facing him and he could see the strain the vision had caused, her face stark white against the rising sun. "I think I should get you to a doctor," he said, knowing her answer but needing to say it anyway. What could a doctor do against something as otherworldly as visions?

"No, there is nothing anyone can do for me,"

She turned her back again and leaned into him. He once again put his arms around her, the fragrant scent of her hair nearly intoxicating.

"Tell me everything," he said, a whisper in her ear.

"I've seen my own death," she said simply.

It has been said that time is relative, but in the hour Napoleon listened to her story, he felt the vastness of it, the malleability he'd always believed in slowly dying with her words.

"I'm dying," she said finally, bringing his mind back to the reality of their situation. But his mind fought the reality of a woman seeing her own death.

He stood, pacing the floor, his eyes desperately seeking the woman who sat calmly on the sofa, her hands crossed on her lap. Had she given up on life so quickly?

Their relationship had started as one of respect. He was her mentor, the man she went to when the strain of being the only female agent seemed too much. He'd listened to her, giving advice when she needed it; a shoulder to cry on when nothing else would do. In that time he'd come to love her, to see her as family, but it went far beyond that for April was no ordinary woman. He found that he could rely on her for comfort as well. Yes, he had Illya in his life, a man who was like a brother. But sometimes he needed the tenderness of a woman. He found that in her and more. She was his sister, best friend, and confidant. She was everything to him.

Now he stood to lose that gentle spirit, that warrior woman, and the thought chilled him.

He flopped down in the seat next to her, tired, dejected. "You've never been precognitive. Your visions are limited in so many ways."

She shook her head. "But this is different," she put her hand over her heart, her deep, soulful eyes piercing his resolve. "This I can feel here. I've never been precognitive, but maybe it's because I've never been this close to death."

Napoleon let that statement sink in, knowing she was right. He'd felt it too, when she'd entered the vision, there strange connection taking him with her.

"So we change the future," he said.

"The future cannot be changed,"

He saw that she believed it, but for Napoleon Solo, the future would be changed. He had no choice.

"Then we break the rules and change it. We take what we know and change it."

He felt strength in the words. He would change the future or die trying. "I'm not going to lose you," he said pulling her into his arms again and burying his face in her silky hair. "Never going to lose you."

They held each other with a desperation that spoke of her vulnerability. Outside the world moved at a dazzling pace, but there, time stood still.

April felt renewed strength as Napoleon held her. Her world was falling apart. She'd always accepted the possibility of death in the line of duty, but this felt so wrong.

"You need to get some rest, Napoleon said, but somehow she didn't want to move. In his arms she was safe, even if it wasn't true, even if she did die at the hands of a madman.

"I don't want to be alone," she said without thinking. The statement could easily have been misunderstood by any other man, but not Napoleon. Not her best friend. He wordlessly took her hand and led her to the bedroom.

She said nothing as he removed his bow tie and jacket as she climbed into bed.

"I don't suppose you have anything suitable for me to sleep in? Maybe I should just go upstairs and get…"

"No, I can't be alone. Not now." April said, panic tingeing her words, disgusted with herself for being so afraid.

He removed his trousers leaving only his shorts and undershirt and laid them neatly on the chair by the bed. And then he crawled into bed. She sought his warmth immediately, snuggling into the crook of his arm, resting her head on his chest, the sound of his heartbeat lulling her into a sound sleep within minutes.

**Chapter Two**

Illya had had enough. For one hour he had watched Solo sit at his desk staring into space, idly tapping a pen against the desk. This after he had arrived at least an hour late. At first Illya figured he had been on one of his notorious dates. But he quickly dismissed that thought when he saw his partner's troubled features. He'd questioned him, asking if he was alright. Napoleon had claimed that he was just thinking over a case the old man had given him, but Illya didn't believe that for a second.

Determine to break the trance the dark-haired agent seemed to be in, Illya got up and sat on the edge of his partner's desk

"Okay, my friend. Talk to me," he ordered.

Napoleon continued to stare into space for a few moments. When he spoke, his voice seemed unsteady. "Do you believe that a person could become psychic later in life, Illya?"

Illya stared for a second wondering if his command of the English language was slipping. "Napoleon, I'm a scientific man. I find it difficult to accept the fact that April is psychic even with all the proof."

Napoleon looked sharply at him. "Don't tell me you're still skeptical?"

"Of course not. I wouldn't be here if not for her intervention on my behalf. Still, I look for a scientific reason for her ability."

"I don't think you're going to find it, Tovarish."

"I've accepted that. But one day an explanation will be found. Of course, I will have long retired from this earth so I'll just have to accept her psychic abilities even though it goes against everything I believe in." Illya paused, once again noticing the troubled look on his friend's face. "What is this talk of latent talents, my friend?"

"Well, you know April and I are close?"

"Of course," The Russian said.

Close was putting it mildly. He'd seen Napoleon with many women, most lasting only a few weeks, but April had become a part of the agent's life. They were like soul mates, each devoted to the other. No woman had ever been so intricately connected to the agent, not even Clara.

"Yeah, well, lately we've become closer," Napoleon said slowly.

Illya coughed loudly, startled by what his best friend had just said. "When did this happen?" he asked, feeling uncomfortable with the subject.

"Since the Vixen affair," Napoleon settled his eyes on him. "I don't know. We just seem so in tune with each other and it's getting stronger."

"I don't think Waverly is going to like it, Napoleon. Be careful."

It was an UNCLE policy that forbid relationships between agents. Waverly didn't even approve of the relationship between he and Napoleon, complaining that their friendship had become more important to them than the job. What would the old man say once he found out about Solo and his prized protégée, April Dancer? Illya imagined both of them being thrown out of the service.

"He doesn't know, and we're still keeping this a secret." Napoleon paused for a moment than dropped the pen he had been holding. "So what do you think? Is it possible?"

Illya felt inadequate. Was Napoleon asking if he should pursue a relationship with the female agent? Was he asking if he should leave UNCLE, go off and get married?

"I believe a famous man once said that love conquers all."

Napoleon returned to drumming the pen on the table, but this time he was looking at Illya. "So you think that's what did it, Tovarish? I love April, so I'm now able to feel what she feels?"

Illya started, looking in stunned silence at Napoleon who suddenly looked just as shocked.

"Illya," Solo said, a smirk coming to his face. "What did you think I was talking about?"

Illya returned to his desk. He could see he'd made a mistake, and so could Napoleon from the look of amusement on his face. He struggled for words to somehow get the foot out of his mouth.

Napoleon laughed. "Now, Illya, you're not falling for those silly rumors are you?"

"But... you just asked me…"

"I asked you if you thought it was possible for a person to develop latent psychic abilities."

"Oh." Was all he could manage to say.

"Let's get this straight. I love April, but I'm not in love with her. Get it? We're not in a relationship. Never will be."

"No, I don't think you can develop latent psychic abilities. Why?" Illya asked, ignoring what Napoleon had just told him. Napoleon settled back in his chair, propping his feet on the desk.

"Just lately April and I seem to be communicating without words. Without getting into specifics, I can tell when there's something wrong. I can feel her visions like I'm there too."

"Are you telling me you can see what April sees in her vision?"

Napoleon looked down, studying his hands. "Not exactly. Emotions mostly. I don't know. It's hard to put into words."

"Empathy," the Russian said. "Empathy on a different level," Illya shook his head as he processed what Napoleon just said. He leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers. "Does it happen with anyone else?"

"Some with you. You know on missions. But with April…it's just different."

"Like soul mates," Illya supplied, his eyes locking with Solo's.

Napoleon gave him a puzzled look. Illya continued. "Think about it. You're close, but not like brother and sister. And not like lovers, but close just the same. It's somewhat like a marriage."

Napoleon considered for a few moments before speaking. "But this is hardly a marriage."

"Your relationship is a marriage in every way except the sex," Illya said. He felt the warm rush of blood and saw his friend smile at his discomfort.

"What I mean is," he stammered. "A partnership relationship is very close to that of marriage. Even though April is mostly partnered with Mark, you still work together on many occasions, especially over the past year. And partners are sort of like soul mates."

Napoleon chuckled. "Let's see, partners are soul mates, eh?"

Illya again felt a warm rush. "Well not us. We're partners and close, but with April. I mean because of her sex…"

Napoleon's eyes danced. "Don't worry. I get it. If she were male, it would probably be like us. But because she's female, I relate to her sort of like a wife only without the---"

"Precisely," Illya interrupted, not wanting to hear his earlier words repeated. "I admit it's not much of an explanation, but it's all I have."

"So what do I do about it? What if I can't handle something happening to her? What if I can't prevent it?" Napoleon said, the sadness returning to his face.

"There is nothing you can do. April is as devoted to UNCLE as you or I. She will never leave it. You must adapt to this. Learn to live with it. Protect her if you can, but know that it's not possible to do so always. April won't have it any other way. She is a woman in a male dominate field. She has fought hard for the respect due her. Do not diminish it by a lapse into chivalry, my friend."

Napoleon pushed his legs down from his desk and picked up a report. The Russian could see something still lay heavy on his partner's mind. He was making an effort to hide it, but Illya knew him too well. He suspected the problem involved April and that she had asked for confidentiality regarding the matter. Illya understood, needed it himself when his world fell apart less than a year ago. But that left Napoleon with a heavy burden on his shoulders yet again.

"I wouldn't worry about it," Illya said. "But if you have reason to do so, I am more than willing to offer my assistance."

He was rewarded with a small smile from the CEA then a shadow crossed his partner's face. Just as quickly it was gone and the cool, confident man Napoleon presented to the world was back. Illya felt a cold shiver run up his spine. He and Napoleon had been in some difficult situations, nearly losing their lives on more than one occasion, but he'd never seen the man look so afraid.

**Chapter Three**

April was tired. She'd spent the bulk of the day sequestered in her office with Napoleon going over her visions. She had drawn pictures of the room. She had described her general impressions of the man. She'd even described how she felt during the vision. But at the end of the day they had nothing.

Now she entered her apartment, tired, defeated, just wanting to curl up somewhere and sleep. Perfect dreamless sleep. But dreamless sleep was not likely. Now that the visions had entered her non-sleep hours, she had nowhere to run.

April shuddered. She was standing in the living room, her eyes scanning the darkness, hands coiled tightly around her gun. She was a snake ready to strike. Then she was off, heels clicking against the linoleum, racing through her apartment, clicking on the light as she went, her gun at the ready. Finally she stood in the kitchen, cool fluorescent lighting bathing the tiny room, its country decoration of baskets and lace curtains setting her instantly at ease. She was alone. Alone and utterly useless.

She sagged against the sink slipping into an uneasy depression. Useless, she thought. Useless and scared. Everything she'd ever been stripped away because of what she was.

It was the way of her life—most of the time normal, able to exist in the world the same as others. She'd done it for years, going into denial about her psychic abilities. But there was a side of her that sought release. That woman was able to see the impossible. That woman was able to reach into a soul and touch the darkness within.

April recalled her parent's punishing her for speaking nonsense. She recalled their anger whenever she would tell them what she saw. Eventually she learned it was not anger, but fear. They were afraid that the gift she'd been given came not from God, but the devil. Her father spent thousands of dollars trying to get to the root of her problem. By the age of ten, she tired of the endless doctors, ministers, faith healers. She wanted to be normal. One day her wish was granted when they simply ceased. And then one day Illya had nearly died and she found herself slowly, inexplicably having a vision that saved his life. She wondered what her parents would say now.

It had been five years since she had seen them. Her father had seen to that. Not a single call had been made to her; no inquiries concerning her well-being. They simply didn't care. But it was her mother that April missed most of all. They'd been close at one time. Helen Birchwood doted on her only child, showing her love in so many ways. But she was a traditionalist—believing what the bible said about an obedient wife. It was for that reason that April hadn't been able to contact her. Whenever she tried, her mother wasn't available. Helen Birchwood had lunches to attend, charities to support. Helen Birchwood was too busy to talk to the child she'd birthed.

And her father was a cold, uncaring man. She had never bothered to contact him. Never would. Hot anger pulsed through her as she turned on the faucet and grabbed a glass from the cabinet. Now the tears came unbidden—tears of loss and pain suddenly overwhelming her. Without thinking she threw the glass across the floor and watched it shatter like her life was doing now.

Damn it she missed them. If only she could see them one more time. Just one more time to say goodbye.

April started when the telephone rang. She stood there, frozen in place, her heart beating so loudly she could hear it. And then she moved, her pace slow. She took a deep breath as she entered the living room, her eyes automatically focusing on the telephone that sat forlornly next to her sofa.

_Don't answer it_, her inner voice commanded. But suddenly the room was changing, becoming something different. She watched in amazement as her world dissolve and another took its place. She spun around trying to take in every detail of it, feel its depth. Cold fear ran through her. She saw without seeing, felt the satin caress her body. Saw colors moving together, forming one color, the vivid pink shade nearly blinding her.

Now a window came into view, the curtains billowing in the breeze, the scent of jasmine filling her senses, mixing with the cloying scent of decay. And then everything darkened at once and only the telephone remained, an eerie half-light surrounding it.

And then she was moving toward it, the sound becoming louder, deafening, her body gliding across the floor against her will. It was as if an unseen hand were pushing her. She saw only the telephone now and her trembling hand as it reached for it.

00000000

Napoleon was heading for his car with Illya when he felt a sudden rush of anxiety. He was vaguely aware of the Russian speaking but his mind was shutting down, closing every sensation out, his vision darkening. He was aware of his partner supporting him as he led him to the car.

Napoleon took deep breaths as the Russian seated him on the passenger side of the car. He heard the door close and seconds later another opening. Then the Russian was there saying something he couldn't comprehend.

He leaned back against the seat, his eyes closed as sensations took over, colors moving at a dizzying speed, coming together than separating, finally settling into one color.

"Oh, god," he heard himself say. "April,"

And then he felt hands search through his pockets and realized Illya was searching for the keys. Within seconds the roar of the engine filled the air and they were moving.

00000

They found her lying on the floor next to the telephone, her body curled into a ball, her face bone white. Illya watched his partner cradle the woman, his hands gently probing her body for injury, all the while asking her if she was okay. But she wasn't speaking and her eyes were tightly closed, the hand clutching the telephone.

Illya flipped his communicator open as he scanned the area for intruders.

"Open channel…."

"No, just help me get her to the bedroom. I'll handle it." Napoleon shouted.

Illya shut the communicator. "But she needs help."

"And I'll see that she gets it," he said sharply. "Now help me get her to the bedroom."

Illya considered insisting on getting medical care for April. He eyed her, taking in not only her condition, but the condition of the apartment. No signs of forced entry and April didn't appear injured. She still held the telephone in her hand leading Illya to believe she'd received some bad news. He wondered if it concerned her family. Illya didn't know much about the female agent's past, but he did know her father served in the military.

He made his decision. "Okay, Napoleon, what do you need of me?"

Napoleon struggled to his feet, Illya supporting him as he lifted April into his arms.

"She's having a vision, Illya. I just need you to stay near in case I need you."

Illya watched as Solo tucked the female agent into bed. He recalled the first time he'd discovered her psychic abilities. Kuryakin had been disposed of in the most diabolical way by a former enemy. April had been the one to discover him when she had a vision. It was then that he had discovered her psychic abilities and swore to keep a secret that even Waverly didn't know.

April was nestled in Napoleon's arms, clinging to him, her body shaking, her hands holding Solo's so tightly that Illya could see the whiteness of her knuckles.

Napoleon himself looked terrified as he silently rocked April back and forward, trying to break through to the woman who was still seemed locked in the vision. Illya recalled seeing her once, in the throws of a vision where seconds drifted into hours. She'd said that the world she entered had no concept of time. That she'd awakened many times from them only to discover that the vision had lasted hours not the minutes she had originally thought.

Her visions were not always easy to understand. They were fluid, constantly changing, moving from scene to scene like a silent movie. During these times she would focus and try to capture the essence of it. If a person were present, she became privy to their emotions, but not their presence. She couldn't see people. They were shadows in her world. But each person was different, representing something that was unique to that individual, she'd explained once. "I know it's Napoleon because I can feel his essence. His soul."

It had seemed a strange statement at the time. He was a scientific man. A man who didn't believe in a God or a soul. But in time, he had to accept that the soul did exist in some intrinsic way he could not understand.

Now he watched her experience the vision, his friend holding her, a haunted look in his eyes. He felt like a voyeur, a person witnessing something meant only for the two people who sat on the bed, for they were both locked in this nightmare

"Are you certain you are not in need of medical intervention?" Illya asked, slicing the silence with his voice. Napoleon looked up, his eyes showing a level of pain the Russian had glimpsed but once in his partner. And that had been when he'd lost Clara.

"I'll…I'll take care of her. I'll always take care of her."

But Illya didn't want him to do it alone. He wanted to take away the terror. Let him know that he wasn't alone. That he would share in this burden. But he knew his help wasn't wanted.

"I'll take care of her," Napoleon said yet again, as if he hadn't recalled saying the words only seconds before.

"You cannot do it alone," Illya said. "You need help."

Napoleon just looked at him, his eyes boring deep as if he too could see his soul. And perhaps he could. Napoleon had been there for him, dragging him from despair, letting him feel the openness of his heart and the love that lay within. Illya had felt uncomfortable during those times. He'd tried to run away, hide his shame. He was so afraid of rejection. But when he looked into his partner's eyes after confessing his shame, he saw no judgment. And he had fallen apart and his friend was there to pick up the pieces. And he couldn't walk, and his friend was there to carry him. Now he wanted to be there for Napoleon, to let him know he wasn't alone.

"Let me help," he said. The words so simple, so deeply felt, so inadequate. He waited for a reply, but it wasn't Napoleon who spoke.

"It's time you knew," the female agent said. And April started to tell her story.

**Chapter Four**

The three agents sat huddled in April's bedroom. Napoleon had prepared tea, its cinnamon scent filling the room. Outside a storm brewed and rain fell against the window piercing the silence of the room. April sat on the bed, her body tightly coiled, her hands clasping Napoleon's. She was still a ghostly shade of white.

"It was _Tennessee Waltz_. When I picked up the telephone I heard it."

"Tell us what happened from the top," Napoleon said, meeting her gaze, as he sat next to her on the bed.

Gathering strength, she looked down at their clasped hands and spoke, her voice a whisper. "As you know, my visions don't always follow a logical path. And sometimes I see or hear things that don't make sense. In the past it didn't matter because I was seeing things that were currently happening. But this is the future and I can't pretend to understand everything."

"Just tell us what you saw or heard, your emotions," Illya said, his voice raspy. He had a small notebook in his hand, his pen poised to write.

She closed her eyes and began speaking. "First I heard the telephone ring, and then I was somewhere else. It was like watching a silent movie, the scenes moving quickly, and then slowing. Suddenly I was in a room and I saw the color pink. It was everywhere. Sort of a warm glow."

She opened her eyes when she heard Napoleon gasp.

"When I was coming over here. When I felt what you were going through. I saw the color pink. I didn't see the room or anything, just pink."

April's heart skipped a beat. She wanted to stop talking, to conceal the rest, but they needed to know. She continued, her voice competing with the patter of rain against the window.

"The telephone wouldn't stop ringing. I thought I would go mad."

"Could you smell anything? Could you see out a window?" Illya asked, never looking up as he continued to write.

"I could smell nothing at first and then I smelled Jasmine. Yes jasmine. And the window, I tried to see out of it, but I couldn't. I could see anything"

"Perhaps it was your mind not wanting you to see out that window," Napoleon said. "Maybe you were too afraid."

April spoke in a low voice. "I was scared, yes, but I wanted to see. I wanted to be able to recognize something…so I'll know."

The rest was unsaid, but what she wanted was a clue. A way to determine when the events would unfold. She couldn't picture a life always wondering, especially with what she now knew of the vision.

"Tell us the rest," the Russian said urgently. He started to write as she spoke.

"I'm not clear how it happened, but I remember being pulled toward the telephone. I remember how it hurt my ears to hear the sound of it. But I couldn't stop moving. Then I answered it and heard the music. I think…I think I screamed, but I'm not sure. Then the room changed and the man had me in his arms. We were dancing and he was singing along with the music. I remember thinking how sad the lyrics were. How sad he was."

She sighed. "And then he was gone. Just like that and I was somewhere else." Closing her eyes again, she spoke, her voice heavy with emotion at what she was about to reveal.

"I could smell smoke, feel the heat of fire." April clutched Napoleon's hand tighter as a chill ran through her body. "I remember my skin felt hot to the touch. And I saw Napoleon." She turned to look at her best friend. "You were there and your eyes…your eyes…it was like you were apologizing for something. Like you knew what would happen next and blamed yourself for it. I heard…I heard the crackling fire. Felt the fear mixed with sadness."

April turned to Illya. "Then I saw you. You were standing in the room, your eyes wide in terror. I saw a road behind you with two paths. I saw Napoleon and myself and you looking at us with sadness in your eyes. I went deeper, into your mind, into your soul. I felt your indecision. Felt the longing. You had a choice to make and it terrified you. You saw death standing there with Napoleon and I and you had to choose."

April paused as she saw the whiteness of Illya's face. Saw his hand tremble as it held the pen. And then the pen fell to the floor and she found her voice again.

"As I returned I heard a voice. It was a strange voice, neither male nor female." She closed her eyes. It said, '**The sixth victim'**."

Napoleon eyes met the Russian's. Illya dropped his head as he closed his eyes, his hands trembling. He reached to retrieve the pen that had fallen to the floor and then he looked up at her, his eyes a dark shade of blue.

"Who is the sixth victim?" he asked.

For a moment all three sat in silence, the wind slashing against the window as if it hoped to get in, lightening filling the room with light and then leaving them in near darkness. And then she spoke,

"It is me, of course,"

Thunder sounded and the room fell silent again.

"But we don't know that," Napoleon finally said, giving voice to what they all knew. "Either April or myself can be the sixth victim."

"The decision has already been made," she countered.

Napoleon stood, grabbing his communicator from the nightstand. April watched as he wordlessly left the room, her eyes traveling to the blond who sat forlornly in the chair next to the bed. He seemed in shock, his disbelief changing to acceptance in light of the accuracy of her past visions. She'd saved his life once. How could he now reject the veracity of them, however symbolic?

"April, we're not going to let this thing happen. There will be no sixth victim."

"I know you'll do everything in your power to prevent it, but please, you know Napoleon is in my vision. I don't care what happens to me, but you've got to save him. Promise me that, Illya. Don't let him die. Even if it means I die."

"No one is going to die." He said determinedly, clearly rejection the logic of avoiding a future meant only for her.

April leaned forward, grabbing the Russian's hand. "You can't save us both, Illya. I've seen the future. You can't save us both. You'll have to choose and it can't be me. We both know that."

Illya said nothing, clearly understanding what she meant. Napoleon was the person that bound the three of them. The relationship she had with the Russian would not exist except for the presence of Napoleon. He was the center, the person they both loved.

Kuryakin stood abruptly, snatching his hand away. "What you're asking I cannot do. I will do everything in my power to save both of you."

"And what if it's not enough."

"I won't accept it. There is always a way."

April jumped up from the bed, the cover falling to the floor, lightening flashing across the room.

" I have to be the sixth victim. I have to be the one to die,"

"And why? Is not your life as important as Napoleon's? Is not your life of importance to you? To him? To me?" He was shouting now, his blue eyes dark with anger.

"No, not if it means I breath my last watching him die. Not if I have to spend the rest of my life without him. We both love him. I'm nothing to you."

"You saved my life once. Allow me to do the same for you. Allow me to find a way to save both of you," Illya countered.

"And if you can't. Can you live with your decision? Can you watch me live knowing it should have been him?"

"I won't choose. I can't. Don't you know what it will do to him if you die? If I let you die?"

"He'll live, Illya. He'll live because you made the right decision. And you must. Don't let the fact that I saved your life once force you into making the wrong choice."

"I won't choose," the Russian shouted. "I won't choose between you. Don't you see I can't. Don't you see that I'd rather die trying to save both of you then live…then live…Damn it, I will not watch him suffer as I have. I will not watch him die a slow death knowing the woman he loves is dead. I will not watch the guilt slowly eat away at him, knowing everyday he lives is another day without her."

April watched the Russian in stunned silence, seeing the truth for the first time. Illya crumbled into the chair, his head dropping into his hands.

"Illya you're talking about yourself. You lost the woman you loved and I'm sorry for that. I really am, but it's not the same between Napoleon and I. He'll go on, marry, and have a family one day."

She crouched in front of him, needing to get through to the blond. He looked at her and she could see the control the Russian was exerting not to break down.

When he spoke his voice was low. "How do you know, April? How do you know what he feels for you now? What he will feel once you're dead?"

April paused, her mind racing, remembering the relationship she shared with her best friend. Finally she spoke, "I only know that I want him to live. And you…you'll be there to help him once I'm gone. You'll make sure he's okay. And he'll go on."

Illya reached over, caressing her cheek "Ask anything of me. But not this. Not this. I will not choose. I will find a way to save both of you even if it means I die trying."

00000

Napoleon paced the floor as he listened to Penelope from section four.

"I'm tellin' you no telephone call entered or left April's apartment since the previous day,"

"Maybe there is some sort of mistake?" he asked, sitting down on the sofa.

"Nappie, I've checked three times. No call came or left that apartment since yesterday."

"Penelope, there's got to be some mistake. Check again."

But even as he spoke the words, he knew there was no mistake. He knew Penelope. They'd dated off and on for over a year. She was an expert in her field. Knew her job well. She wouldn't make a mistake like that. Perhaps he had known it all along. Maybe that's why he had insisted on privacy to make the call.

He wanted to scream, to do something to stop what was about to happen. He'd never felt so helpless, so vulnerable. If she died, he didn't know if he could go on.

"Napoleon, are you alright?" Penelope asked. It was only then that he realized he had stopped talking.

"I'm fine Penelope. Ah…you mind keeping this under your hat. I would prefer if this didn't get out."

"Sure. You got it. But you still owe me dinner."

"Yeah. Looking forward to it. Napoleon out." He said distractedly.

He shut his communicator, his mind numb with worry. He could hear shouting in the next room and knew what April and Illya were arguing about. Solo was fighting an unseen enemy. Knowing that the decision that had to be made would destroy one life and leave the other in shambles. He would willingly give his life for either of his friends, but what he was about to ask Illya could destroy the Russian.

Illya, his best friend, his brother. The man who'd only recently suffered the loss of the woman he loved. A man with a horrifying childhood, who'd shared the pain of it with Solo only recently. And he'd been there to pick up the pieces when the Russian fell apart. He'd shielded him from prying eyes, felt the burden the Russian carried as if it had been his own burden. And he would willingly do it again. Now he was about to put another burden on a man who was still struggling to heal. He was about to ask him to let him die in order to save April. But how could he do it, knowing what Illya would suffer because of it? Knowing that he wouldn't be there this time to help him get through it?

"Oh, god," he murmured. "I don't know what to do. I don't know how to stop this."

00000

An hour later the storm had ended and the sky was bright with color. The three agents sat in stunned silence around the kitchen table in April's apartment. She listened as her two friends discussed a course of action. She contributed nothing to the conversation. She felt so out of control. So not herself. What could she do to avoid the future?

"We wait," Napoleon said.

"Well, what do you suggest I do while we wait?" April asked sharply, coming out of her trance like indifference and regarding the two men who sat across from her.

Napoleon took a sip of coffee before speaking. "Business as usual. Act like nothing has happened. We have to consider the possibility that it is someone we know. Someone who works for UNCLE."

"So what do we do if we find him? Arrest him for a crime that hasn't been committed. Is that what we do?" April asked evenly, her anger rising. "We go up to him and say 'you're under arrest for the willful plot to kill April Dancer.' Or maybe we execute him. You know… an eye for an eye. Who the hell cares if it hasn't happened yet?" April voice was coming quick and sharp, her anger escalating. "Maybe I do it. I go up to him and kill him for murdering me." She laughed. "It's either you or me. I choose you so bang, you're dead."

"April," Napoleon said, placing his hand over hers, taking the cup that she held perilously in her shaking hand.

"I think that's a good idea," she continued in the hysterical voice. "I kill him first. I tell him why and I kill him first." April felt a sting in her eyes as the tears started to fall. "I'm an agent. I know how to kill. It would be self defense." She heard the panic in her voice, but she couldn't stop talking. She couldn't stop crying. She felt Napoleon lift her from her chair. Saw the Russian leave the room. And then she was in his arms, sobbing deeply, but her tears were not because she was dying, but because he would die.

For long moments she just nestled in his arms, smelling the faint, woodsy scent of his cologne. After awhile she felt the panic replaced by calmness. "I'm sorry for losing control like that."

"No need to apologize," He stroked her hair as she leaned into him, nearly going boneless in his arms.

"I'm not going to let anything happen to you," he said. And she could hear the sincerity in his voice. But he would die because of her and that she couldn't take.

"Napoleon, I want you to send me away. Somewhere… by myself,"

He pulled back, looking at her incredulously. "What are you asking? Are you asking me to let you go off somewhere to be killed? Well, no deal. No deal, April. I'm not walking away from this."

"You've got to," April said, cupping his chin. "There's no reason for you to die. He wants me."

"Who do you think I am?" Napoleon said, backing away from her. "Somebody who can just walk away from you.? Leave you to die? Well no, lady. I'm in it to the end."

"Well I don't want you there," April shouted. "I don't want you there to die. Do anything for me, but not this. This bastard wants me, Napoleon. He wants me. I don't know how you get mixed up in it, but I do know I want you out of it."

He glared at her, she could see his anger rising. "No, if we go down, we go down fighting every step of the way. I'm not walking away from this so get used to it."

She turned from him, feeling the fruitlessness of the whole thing. "So I guess it's till death do us part?"

He grabbed her shoulder, spinning her around. "I'm a fighting man. I'm not planning on either of us dying…at least not soon."

April took a deep breath. "Okay, fine. We fight it together."

00000

Illya felt like a caged animal as he waited for his friends to come out of the kitchen. April had completely broken down, surprising even the Russian who'd left the two alone. Now he paced the floor. He thought of having a drink. April always kept a bottle of vodka for when he visited. But what would that serve. He needed to know who April Dancer really was to solve this case. He needed to dig into her past, something he wasn't particularly relishing.

Illya had been told that her father had served in the military, yet he was always suspicious of the story. There was something about April that spoke of a more aristocratic background. Perhaps it was her manner of speaking, almost British in intonation, suggesting a woman who traveled often. And she spoke almost as many languages as he. Illya recalled conversing with her in several languages, all spoken with an upper-class accent.

And then there was her decidedly unmilitary bearing—a way of walking, her movements not as precise as one raised by a military father. She had a tendency of questioning orders, to even change them if the situation suited her.

Illya came from a military family, his father having served in the Russian army. There was always a certain behavior among military children, a sort of blind obedience. A respect for rules, order. April lacked that, but it had always been a personal matter. Until now.

Illya flopped down in the overstuffed chair, running a tired hand over his face, observing the living room. April had decorated it with an eclectic mix of styles. Her talent showing in the paintings on the wall, the restored furniture, antique with a rustic flavor that lent the room a cozy yet functional appeal. She had a bar, also restored by the female agent that sat flush against a wall, its creamy white appearance lending it a feel of another century.

Again he considered the drink, imagining the burning sensation as he drank it, feeling the instant relaxation it would lend him. He was tired, drained, and knew his friends were even more so. They'd been through a lot, a voyage to hell, but they hadn't come back yet. He braced himself for what he would have to do next. Fiercely private, the Russian didn't take delving into someone's past lightly.

Seconds later, his two friends emerged from the kitchen. Napoleon held April's hand as he led her to the sofa. Both sat down, April looking embarrassed. Illya instantly decided against the drink. He needed his wits about him if he hoped to change the future. He wasted no time in getting to the point.

"I need to know about your past," he said, getting up to sit in the chair nearer the sofa.

Now he was sitting directly in front of her, leaning back, the notebook and pen poised in his hand.

"Okay," the female agent said, taking a deep breath. "Fire away,"

Illya turned the page of the notebook. Have you been involved with anyone recently who may hold a grudge against you? Someone who may be obsessed with you?"

April shook her head. "No, other than the usual nefarious citizens we deal with everyday."

"I mean of a romantic nature at UNCLE?" Illya stammered, keeping his eyes trained on his notes. "This could easily be a crime of passion."

"I've gone out on a few dates. Never with an enforcement agent of course."

"Of course," Illya replied, clearing his throat.

"Could be a case of unrequited love." Napoleon added.

"Have you rejected anyone recently?" Illya continued, as he scribbled the reply to the previous question.

"Sure, most of the male population of UNCLE, present company excluded of course,"

She'd said it lightly, but Illya sensed she was leaving something out. He was about to say something about it when Napoleon spoke, "April, forget I'm the CEA and answer the question."

April hesitated for a moment. "One agent didn't like the word 'no'."

"What do you mean?" Illya asked as he scribbled another note.

"Jay Hampstead. I've turned him down numerous times, but he keeps coming back."

"And he's an enforcement agent," Illya added. "well aware of the rules."

"Doesn't stop some men when it comes to an attractive woman." Napoleon supplied. Illya could see the anger boiling under the CEA's surface, but he appeared calm as he listened to April.

"Has he ever threatened you?" Illya asked, scratching yet another note on the paper.

"Well, I had to pin Jay against the wall when he came in the women's dressing room?"

"What!" Napoleon said, glaring between his two friends. "Why didn't you report this?"

"I handled it." April said tersely. "Napoleon, I'm the first female agent. There's going to be some battles I'm just going to have to face alone. You're not going to always be there. I handled it and he left me alone."

"What happened? Tell me everything," Napoleon ordered. He was in full CEA mode now.

"I stayed late one evening after the party. You remember the one a few months back." She paused looking from one man to the other. Both nodded their heads. "I had spilled some wine on my blouse and needed to change so I went to the locker room. I usually keep some clothes there, just in case."

That was true of most UNCLE agents. They had a dirty business, often ruining suits with blood not always theirs. Most agents kept a change of clothes.

"I had just removed my blouse when I heard a sound. I turned around and found Jay standing there. He was drunk. I told him to get out. I was very clear that I wasn't interested. But he wouldn't listen. He came toward me anyway. Frankly, he was a bit intimidating, but I stood my ground."

"Jay weighs about three hundred pounds of pure muscle, April. Why didn't you ring the security alarm?" Napoleon asked.

"The security alarm is for the rest of Uncle's female population. Not a field agent." She paused, clearing her throat. "I ask you. If you had been alone, and Jay had approached either of you, would you have hit the security alarm?" April looked at both men waiting for a reply. When none came she continued. "He made his intentions known."

"How?" Illya asked.

"He unzipped his pants?" April stated quickly. She looked down at her hands like she had something to be ashamed of.

"You're telling me he attempted to sexually assault you?" Napoleon said sharply. "This should have been reported. The man should have been punished and discharged immediately."

"He was drunk. A lot of us were. Probably doesn't even remember what happened. I handled it."

Napoleon was practically shaking with rage. "Okay. Then what happened?"

"He came toward me and I told him to get out. He said he knew that I wanted him. That it was the reason I left the party and came in there. He was drunk Napoleon. Didn't really know what he was doing. I told him I wasn't interested, but he didn't listen. Kept saying how he knew I had it for him. He grabbed me. That's when I let him have it."

Napoleon's eyes bulged. "Have what?"

"My fist, silly. I knocked him out with one jab. Wasn't hard considering how drunk he was. I tied him up and waited for him to come to. He did after a few minutes. He apologized for the misunderstanding and begged me to untie him. I did and he left. That was it."

"April, he could have…" Napoleon started.

"I'm more than capable of taking care of myself, thank you very much."

"Okay. You got a black belt in Karate. You're adept at more than one fighting style, but the man is over three hundred pounds of pure muscle. He's 6'5. He's bested more than one agent in practice. You can't underestimate him."

"I had him tied like a squealing pig, Napoleon."

"Next time something like that happens, you tell me. That's an order."

April saluted him as if they were in the army. "Yes, sir."

"I mean it, April. I won't have my agents harassed."

April patted his hand. "I know and I'm sorry. It's just that it's hard for a woman. Jay hasn't been the first aggressive man I encountered."

"I know, but he's an UNCLE agent and we have rules governing conduct for agents."

"Is he the only one?" Illya asked, anxious to move on.

"Pretty much. The rest got tired of asking and left me alone. And outside of UNCLE, well, I really haven't had the time to pursue a relationship,"

April looked embarrassed so Illya moved on.

"You mentioned having a fiancé once," he said, remembering a past conversation he had with her one day at the Victorian house.

"Yes, but I broke it off."

Illya cleared his throat. He needed to know about April's fiancé. Dumping someone could easily lead to violence. He knew that first hand. It hadn't been that long ago when he'd broken off a relationship to pursue the woman he loved. His girlfriend at the time hadn't been too happy about it, turning from a sweet, unassuming woman into a fierce hellcat, bent on revenge. The woman had sworn she would get him if it took everything she had to do it. Yet he'd done the honorable thing by breaking off the relationship.

"Tell me about your ex-fiancé," he asked, resting his eyes on the female agent. He could see the indecision in her eyes. He was preparing to argue why he needed the information when she spoke.

"There are things about my past I've chosen not to share with anyone but Napoleon," she said. Illya felt a warm rush, but he kept unwavering eyes on her. He really was treading in areas he wasn't wanted, but what choice did he have?

"I was born in Boston to very wealthy parents…" she began.

Harold Wainright was a handsome young man who was spoiled by years of pampering at his parents hands. April had originally consented to marriage in hopes of pleasing her father, a rather demanding man who saw women as things to be ordered about. It was a week before the wedding when she realized she couldn't go through with it. She told Harold promptly. He didn't take the news well, calling her a tramp, saying that she only wanted to sleep around, not settle down and have a husband and children. But what April really wanted was freedom. She had spent her whole life under the watchful eye of her father. And he was a cruel man, capable of exacting punishment for the simplest perceived indiscretions. She'd watched her mother cower in fear of his temper. And she didn't want that sort of life for herself

Her father had been livid, accusing her of being selfish, slapping her across the face when she refused to marry the man who only meant a company merger for him. She left for New York the next day. Her father promptly cut off all money, leaving her with only the clothes in her suitcase and five-hundred dollars in her purse. She never heard from her parents again. Not even her mother whom she loved above all others. She knew that her father had not only taken away her financial support, but her mother as well. She was alone for the first time in her life.

Life was hard after leaving her family. She had a degree in art history, a field that could do little in helping her to acquire sufficient employment. She had taken odd jobs here and there, some clerical, nothing that lasted longer than three months. She had been tempted a few times to use her looks to succeed. She had more than a few offers, all sounding better than life as Harold's wife. But her strict moral upbringing had gotten in the way and she had settled for a position as a waitress at a small diner. She barely made ends meet and spent her days fighting off the advances of men. Then one day an older gentleman arrived.

His car had broken down on the highway. It was a hot, sultry day and the man had walked for two miles before he reached the diner. He'd sat while April dotted on him. He sort of reminded her of her grandfather who had passed away when she was only a child.

She and the old man had talked for nearly an hour before a car came to pick him up. One week later she received a signed invitation to have lunch with him. She accepted and April Dancer was born.

Most at UNCLE were told that she was the daughter of an ex-military man. Even Mark believed that. Only Napoleon and Waverly knew the truth, a fact that she was grateful for. She didn't want anyone to know that she was the daughter of a millionaire, a man who practiced law as a hobby, a man who had rejected his own daughter.

Telling her story to Illya brought it all back—the betrayal of her family, the life she once had, now replaced with a better one.

"Now you know everything, Illya. Except for my real name," she said mischievously.

"April Dancer will suffice," he said, meeting her eyes, clearly communicating his intentions to leave her with at least one secret.

"To maintain your privacy, I'll leave it to Napoleon to check the computer regarding your ex-fiancé. Illya stood to leave. "I'll check and see if there are any deaths reported. Your vision indicated five victims. Perhaps our killer has already struck."

"Thanks Illya," she said, coming over and kissing him on the cheek.

The Russian blushed then turned and left. And as April watched him leave, she knew they would find no trace of the killer.

**Chapter Five**

It had been two days since the vision. Two days of searching for answers and finding none. Now April, needing to get away from the continued stress she found herself under entered the UNCLE gymnasium. It was early yet, too early for the average denizen of UNCLE to even consider working out which was why she was there at six o'clock in the morning. She hated being stared at, her every move analyzed because she was the first female enforcement agent and the only one currently assigned to New York. There were many who believed that women didn't belong at UNCLE; at least not as enforcement agents. It was for that reason that she always worked out early in the morning.

April headed to the locker room. The gym was icy cold, in preparation for the many bodies that would inhabit it less than two hours from now. She dressed quickly, pulling on the shorts and stretchy top then making her way to the gym.

April decided that she didn't need the lights on in the rest of the gym so only the boxing area was illuminated. This area contained several punching bags and a large ring. April stood in front of a medium sized bag, her body poised to strike. Within minutes she was punching the bag with all she had, releasing the anger and frustration of what she was going through.

Suddenly April's attention was drawn to the perimeter of the room. She was certain she'd seen someone move in the darkened corner. It looked like a man of substantial size, but now as she looked she saw nothing.

She scanned the darkness, making out the exercise equipment to her right, the basketball court near the entrance to the locker room, and finally the martial arts practice area directly in front of her. But nowhere did she see a man. She was just about to return to the punching bag when something moved then stopped.

"Is there anyone there?" she asked and waited for a reply. But no one responded.

She felt so vulnerable out in the open. She was reasonably certain she'd seen someone now the hairs on the back of her neck were standing on end.

"I know you're there. I would suggest you come out or suffer the consequences."

They were brave words but she was frantic with fear. Nevertheless she was rewarded when a figure emerged. Now it stood, the light illuminating him just a little, but not enough for recognition. April imagined the man smiling, enjoying her discomfort.

"Who's there?" she asked, her voice carefully controlled not to portray fear. But again she received no answer. Now cold fury swept through her. "If this is some sort of game I suggest you find someone else to play with."

The figure moved again. April could see the outline of his body now. He was a large man, his arms pressed rigidly to his sides. She watched as the darkness parted and the large, lumbering figure of the man emerged. It was Jay Hampstead.

He stood there, his eyes undressing her. Neither spoke for seconds, and then she moved forward, grabbing her towel from the ropes.

"So what brings you here this early, Jay?" she asked, careful to keep her voice leveled. She didn't want him to sense her fear.

He shrugged. "Came to see you. Knew you like to come here in the morning sometimes. Thought what the hell."

She noticed he wasn't dressed for the gym nor was he carrying a bag that could contain his gym clothes. Instead he wore a short-sleeved white shirt, black pleated pants and a tie. His muscles were showing, rippling as he walked toward her.

She backed away as he advanced. He was still looking her up and down, a smirk on his face. Every now and then his eyes would dart around the room as if he were checking to see if they were alone.

"So what say you and I get together one of these evenings?" Jay asked slowly.

April grabbed her towel from the ropes and wiped the sweat from her face. She needed to get out of there now. They were alone in a part of the building that didn't have cameras. The elimination of cameras was done to give the personnel some feeling of privacy. The gym was in the basement near the center of the building. It was believed to be secure because of its location. Now it had become her own private hell for no one would hear her if she called for help. Napoleon was right. Jay was a formidable fighter against the strongest man and she barely reached his shoulders in height.

"You know how I feel about that, Jay. And there are rules concerning fraternizations between enforcement agents."

"You don't seem to mind when it comes to Napoleon and that commie bastard." He said, his dark eyes flashing in anger, moving forward as he wiped his hands across his chin.

"I'm not going to dignify that with an answer," she said tersely. "The gym is yours." She bolted past him, intent on returning to her office. A shower could wait until there were more people around. But he moved quickly, grabbing her arm, and spinning her around to face him.

"Probably doing it with the old man, too," he said. "Is that how you got your job? The old man first and then Napoleon and the commie?"

April turned her arm sharply to the left, breaking the hold. Jay raised his hands as if in surrender, backing away from her. "Come on, nobodies here. Why don't we have some fun? It will be a kick doing it right here at headquarters."

"I already told you I'm not interested." She started for the door, her heart racing. She heard his footsteps as he followed her. In seconds he had his arms around her in a bear-hug. She could barely breathe, but she struggled against his embrace.

"I'm not drunk now and I think a man and a woman can find something better to do besides fighting," Jay hissed.

And then he grabbed her breast roughly. April slammed her hill into the instep of his feet and he let her go. April staggering then fell to the floor. She rolled onto her back, feet braced, knees bent. He was coming at full speed, his eyes blazing. Once he was in striking distance, she sent her feet sailing into his groin. She missed as he averted his body just in time. Then he was on her, both of them struggling on the floor, bodies rolling as April struck him in the face, aiming for his eyes. But he was strong and held her with fierce determination. April made a decision. She wasn't about to make it easy.

0000000

Napoleon was getting dressed when he had the overwhelming feeling that April was in danger. He knew she was at the gym because she'd mentioned going in early to workout. Now he kicked himself for not insisting on accompanying her everywhere she went until the case was solved, but the visions had not been about headquarters. She was safe there, or so he had thought.

He picked up his communicator and tried to call her, but she didn't answer, which may only mean that she was either working out or was in the shower and couldn't hear the communicator. Or she was in danger and unable to reach it.

"Open channel D," he said, his heart racing.

00000

April had put up quite a fight, landing more than one good blow against the large man, but in the end Jay was winning. She couldn't keep fighting. Now he had her pinned, his hot breath making her gag, his body sprawled on top of her. She was dizzy from her last attempt at getting away when he'd slammed her head to the floor. The man was careful not to hit her anywhere that could be seen. It would be her word against his.

"You're gonna like it baby. I'm gonna make you want to dump those two friends of yours once you get a piece of me," he whispered in her ear.

"I told you no. Let me up Jay. Let me up and we'll forget all about it."

She hated the pleading sound in her voice, but she was desperate. She'd always imagined that something like this could happen in the field. Not at headquarters by a man who promised to uphold the law.

Jay ran his hands down her body then slipped his hands between her legs. He lingered there for a second, rubbing her back and forwards.

She screamed knowing that there was no one to hear her, but she had to try.

Jay laughed. "Isn't that sweet. The little enforcement lady screaming like a regular girl,"

"Let me go. I'll report this. You'll---,"

"Your word against mine, April. No one gonna believe you. They never believe the woman."

April locked eyes with him, her voice cold. "You'll pay if you ever touch me."

But he merely laughed. He roughly pulled her hands over her head, holding them effortlessly with one hand. With his free hand he pulled off her shorts and pried her legs apart. Soon April heard him open his zipper and then he positioned himself between her legs. Her mind distanced itself from her body. It was a meditation technique she'd learned in her yoga studies. And she was grateful for it. She wouldn't have to be there for what Jay was about to do.

Distantly she heard her name being called, and the sound of running feet. And then the large man was lifted away and she looked into the blue eyes of Illya Kuryakin.

Illya sat down next to her, taking her hands, but she still wasn't ready to come back. At least not yet. She saw the curious stares of the guards as they took Jay away. He seemed unconscious and April wondered if Illya had done something to him.

The Russian removed his jacket and covered her lower body. It was only then that she saw her shorts lying on the floor, a witness to what had occurred. Then he was handing them to her and turning his back so she could get dressed. She did so in a cool, detached way, the shame burning her like a hot iron.

It had been her fault, she thought. Her fault for coming to workout in an unsecured area. Her fault for not reporting the man the first time he'd tried something. Her fault all of it.

Someone entered the room and she heard the Russian roar, commanding them to get out. Now they were alone.

"How did you know?" April asked.

"Napoleon called."

The Russian stood, offering his hand. She stared at it for a moment, then took it

"Come on, we need to get you to the infirmary."

She leaned heavily on him as he led her from the room.

0000

Napoleon arrived soon after April was situated in the infirmary. He found Illya in the waiting room drinking a cup of coffee.

"I heard as soon as I got here. I need to see her."

"Sit down my friend, she is fine. The doctor is tending to her injuries now."

Illya watched his friend fall apart. Napoleon was clinching and unclenching his hands as if he pictured Jay's neck within his reach.

Illya still remembered the frantic call. He had gone in early to get some work done. He was in their shared office and Napoleon had asked him to check on April. "She's in danger," he'd said, and Illya had immediately thought of the vision. But Napoleon had gone on, telling him that she was in the gym and that something was happening because he was nearly going out of his mind.

Illya had wasted no time in getting to the gym, commandeering two guards as he went. He didn't know what he was walking into, but he trusted his friend.

Now the dark-haired agent stared at the door to her room and Illya wondered briefly how he knew which room she was in. The infirmary had a dozen such rooms.

"Wait till I get my hands on that bastard," Napoleon said, his hands balled into tight fist.

"You will not need to, my friend. Mr. Waverly is seeing to him."

Which meant a trial would follow. If he were found innocent, he would be returned to duty. Of course that wouldn't happen because Illya and two guards had both witnessed the crime. The man would be found guilty.

"We won't see him again," Illya said.

Napoleon didn't say anything, his eyes still riveted on the door to April's room. They both knew the penalty for a crime against a fellow agent. Jay would not serve one day in jail. He would not return to his former life, his memory of UNCLE erased. Instead he would simply disappear. No questions would be asked. None would be needed. He was a dangerous man. A man who simply couldn't be unleashed on society.

"Did he….did he…" Napoleon asked, sitting heavily in a chair.

"I don't know. I think I got there in time."

"Thank you for believing me when I called," Napoleon said.

"How could I not?"

The door opened and a middle-aged man with brown hair and a determined chin walked in. It was Doctor Timmons, the chief physician at UNCLE headquarters. Illya recalled the man treating him many times in the infirmary. He was a gentle man, his pain for what the agents suffered palpable.

"How is she? Can I see her? Is she hurt?" Napoleon asked the doctor in rapid fire succession. The doctor came in and took a seat.

"She's fine. A little shaken, but doing pretty well considering. She can go home and I suggest she take a few days off. Maybe a week."

"Can I see her?" Napoleon asked quickly.

"Yes. Go right in. She's awake." Napoleon rushed to the room, leaving the doctor and Illya alone.

"Is she really okay?" Illya asked, remembering the frightened woman and their long walk to the infirmary.

"Yes, considering. She has been through a frightening ordeal. And by the hands of a colleague no less. She will need the support of her friends." The doctor paused, his green eyes meeting Illya's. "I'm aware of the close friendship you share. I suggest you surround her with it now. Let her know that she's going to be okay. Take her to that Victorian house of yours for a few days."

Illya smiled, remembering how they always returned to the Victorian house. Even after everything had happened to him. After losing Lisa, he still went there. He still enjoyed fishing up the road. Still enjoyed the country atmosphere and spending time with Roy.

"Yes, I'll let Napoleon know immediately. It sounds like a good idea."

"Good," The doctor stood, offering his hand. "I'll give Waverly my prescription for one week at the Victorian house. Friends included, of course." He smiled as Illya took his hand and shook it gratefully. They did need a little diversion, Illya thought. Someplace where they could forget the world and the Victorian house was the place to do it.

0000

April was sitting on the bed when Napoleon entered. She had some bruising on her arm, but otherwise seemed unharmed. At least physically. He still didn't know how far Jay had gotten. Napoleon sat on the bed and met April's eyes.

"I'm sorry, Napoleon."

Napoleon was perplexed. "What for?"

"For being stupid. For not listening. I really thought I could handle him. And now look."

"It's not your fault. It's my fault for not seeing the type of man he _was_. It's my job to notice these things and I failed."

"No you didn't. He was good at hiding it."

"Not that good. He was always loose cannon, but he's got the job done so we kept him. I should have let him go a long time ago."

Napoleon realized April's hands were shaking. He wanted to touch her, calm her, tell her everything was going to be alright. But he'd seen rape victims in the past. Many didn't want to be touched. Some were so traumatized that they would never be the same again. All their lives fearful of men. Never seeking the intimacy of touch. Never knowing the love of a man.

"He's in custody now," he said slowly, his voice barely above a whisper. He'll be taken care of."

"I know. I won't have to worry about him. None of us will."

Napoleon knew what she meant. Jay had been a suspect, but now, he was no longer a candidate. Nevertheless, he would make sure things were carried out. He would be there the last day Jay breathed.

April didn't say anything for a while, her hands shaking, looking at him with sad eyes. He threw caution to the wind and grasped her hand. He sat down on the bed and gathered her in his arms. She did not pull away.

"Did he hurt you?" he whispered.

April took a deep breath as Napoleon waited for the answer. If Jay touched her he wouldn't be accountable for his actions. UNCLE wouldn't get a chance to take care of the man because he would do it with his bare hands.

"No," April finally said. "Illya got there in time, but if he hadn't. If he had come just a few minutes later…"

"Don't," Napoleon said, pulling her closer, kissing the top of her head. "He got there in time. You're safe now. He'll never hurt you again. No one will ever hurt you again."

She rested her head on his chest as he smoothed her hair. Napoleon could feel some of the tension leave her body.

"What good am I if I can't take care of myself? What happens in the field? To me? To my partner? They're right. I'm a danger to whoever is partnered with me. Mark might as well be on his own for the good I'll do."

"Listen to me, April. You're a superior agent. One of my best agents. I trust you with my life. So does Mark. So does Illya. But if you think that means you can beat every man on the planet, you're wrong. Nobody can do that. Not even me believe it or not."

April laughed, drawing back to look into Napoleon's eyes. "And here I thought you were invincible,"

"No, my dear, but what I am is psychic. Somehow. At least when it comes to you. I guess you rubbed off on me."

"Illya told me how he knew."

"Yes, and I can't explain it."

"Well, welcome to my world."

"Oh, well, at least we're in this together." Napoleon said smiling.

**Chapter Six**

They returned a week later from their vacation at the Victorian house. During their stay, Napoleon managed to discover that all of April's former boyfriends were happily involved with someone else or living in another country. None appeared to have a grudge against her. Most spoke fondly of their time together.

April's ex-fiancé was now a married man with two beautiful children. He headed his father's company, the old man having retired two years earlier. So that left them with nothing—no leads, and closer to a future date none of them wanted to think of.

Now all three agents sat in April's office. In a few days a forth member would join the team--her partner Mark. Currently he was on assignment in an undisclosed area somewhere in Europe. April had decided to tell him everything when he returned. She fully expected him to go into big brother mode and though she would never admit it, she looked forward to it. Mark was protective in the way most partners were with each other. He wouldn't be pleased to discover that he had been left out of the loop yet again. Still, how could she call her partner and tell him she was going to die soon?

"Penny for your thoughts." Solo said, perching on the edge of her desk.

April looked into his deep brown eyes. His smile was reassuring, but she could see the ordeal was having an affect on the CEA. She saw lines that hadn't been there before. He seemed tired, listless, on edge. They'd had an entire week at the Victorian house. A week of fishing, reading books on the veranda, and talking into the late hours of the morning. Yet when they returned, the weariness had returned with them.

"Nothing much," she said, trying to put on a smile. "Just thinking how lucky I am to have such good friends."

She was indeed lucky. Both men had doted on her, seeing to her every need, never leaving her alone. For the most part her recovery had been quick. All agents went through psychological training to endure ordeals of every kind. Theirs was a dangerous business. One had to have good coping skills just to survive.

"We better get back to work before Waverly suspects something," Illya said, rising from the chair.

Illya was blushing from her last comment. April thought it was remarkable that the stoic Russian appeared cold to the world, yet beneath it all was a warm caring individual.

At that precise moment Waverly's secretary called ordering them to his conference room.

They found Waverly sitting in the conference room, eyes downcast as he flipped through a folder. He didn't acknowledge their presence as each sat around the table. He seemed tense, his body hunched over the files, his face furrowed in contemplation. When Waverly looked up, his eyes were distant, his face marred with worry, the dark circles prominent under the eyes. Waverly cleared his throat. "I shall dispense with the formalities and get straight to the point."

He flipped a switch and the picture of a distinguished looking man of about sixty appeared. He had thinning grey hair and eyes as blue as the sky.

"Wilford Calburn," Waverly began. "Award-winning scientist who died of a heart attack a little over a month ago. He developed a weapon, a small bomb that could fit on the head of a pin. If exploded, it could level ten city blocks. It's a dangerous weapon in the wrong hands."

Waverly added tobacco to his pipe and tapped it lightly on the table. "Mr. Calburn was a benevolent man. When he realized what he had invented he came to us and showed his invention. He had deep respect for our organization. In the end, however, he felt it too dangerous even for us and destroyed it. Or so we thought."

Napoleon tensed, thinking of the possibilities of a bomb the size of a pen head.

Waverly continued, "In spite of our best efforts to ensure its destruction, I have since discovered its existence. It seems Wilford Calburn couldn't bring himself to destroy his masterpiece. Instead he destroyed only the blueprints. The actual bomb has been left with his brother. It was placed inside an antique watch passed down from his grandfather."

The screen changed again and a man who bore an uncanny resemblance to Wilford Calburn appeared. He looked to be in his mid-fifties with the same striking eye color as his brother, but where Wilford seemed kind, his brother seemed distant, angry with the world. There was something about the face, the eyes cold, a smile that stopped short of a sneer.

He stole a glance at April. She was absolutely still, her body tense, her eyes narrowed as she took in the figure on the screen. She turned to him and their eyes locked and for a moment he saw nothing, felt nothing but their deep soul connection. Terror ran through him, drawing its icy claw down his spine. He fought to regain his composure, turning his head to look into the face of Thomas Calburn—the man with eyes as dark as night in spite of the blue, The mouth cruelly turned, the hands resting on the back of a chair—large, bone white hands. The hands of a killer.

"Thomas Calburn," Waverly began, bringing Napoleon's attention back. "Brother of Wilford Calburn. He and his brother were very close, but he is unlike his brother in many ways. He is a self-made man, uneducated, rich only through strategic investments and a somewhat shady past. He is strictly legitimate now. It is rumored that his wealth can be attributed to his assistant, a woman who is very devoted to him—one Cynthia Skylar."

Waverly paused then continued. "Which brings us to our present concern."

"I take it that his brother left him the watch?" Napoleon asked

"Indeed Mr. Solo. Indeed. It has been in the family for generations—an antique pocket watch."

Waverly flipped a switch and a swank nightclub appeared. Solo had seen the club on occasion, but had never frequented it. It was simply too retro for his taste. He enjoyed living in the present.

Now he looked at the dazzling marquee— pink, proclaiming the name of the club. And underneath the name a glass filled with pink liquid tilted to the side.

"The color pink," Napoleon mouthed. He looked at Illya. The Russian had the notepad out and was writing quickly. Even from where Solo sat he could recognize the Cyrillic writing which was shocking in itself. Illya always made a practice of writing in English..

"Mr. Calburn is the owner of a club called _The Pink Martini_. Strictly a hobby I'm told. It is believed that the bomb is either on his person or in one of his many residences throughout New York. Of course it could also be in the club."

"How do we know he has it?" Napoleon asked.

"We received a letter from Wilford Calburn," Waverly said, flipping a switch. The letter appeared on the screen.

_Mr. Waverly,_

_Every man wants power, his fifteen minutes of fame. I once endeavored to achieve power by creating a devise so diabolical that I wanted to destroy it. In the end I couldn't do it. _

_If you are reading this, I am dead and my brother is now in possession of the weapon. It has been disarmed so it posses no threat to you. It is merely a way of claiming my immortality. I tell you this only so you will be aware of its existence. _

_Please accept my humble apologies. _

_Wilford Calburn_

"He is a bitter man, lady, gentlemen. A man driven to extremes by the loss of a woman nearly twenty years ago," Waverly said.

Napoleon's heart skipped a beat and as he looked at April, he saw it had the same effect on her—she was deathly pale. It was Illya who asked the question that made his blood run cold.

"What happened to her, sir?"

"Her name was Sabrina Wellesley and he is obsessed with her. Nearly twenty years ago he operated the predecessor to _The Pink Martini. _It was his first business endeavor, long before he found his fortune. He employed Miss Wellesley as a singer at the establishment. Unfortunately, she ran away and he never got over it. There are rumors," Waverly said slowly. "That Miss Wellesley was killed by Mr. Calburn and her body hidden. My informants believe he was inflamed by jealousy. They were to be married, you see."

"And has no one sleeked to ascertain Miss Wellesley whereabouts?" Illya asked.

"We have, but unfortunately Miss Wellesley was using an assumed name. I'm afraid it is nearly impossible to find her…unless she wants to be found. Since her disappearance he has sought and perhaps killed other women. We were only able to locate two."

"And the others?" Napoleon asked, grasping a pen tightly in his hand.

"Five women have disappeared…that we know of. We have contacted their families, friends. They have simply vanished. I do not doubt Mr. Calburn's involvement in the matter. However, more is at steak. We must find the bomb or many could die."

"But what about the women?" April asked quickly.

"Our first priority is locating the bomb. The women are also of importance, but this must take precedence." Waverly said, leveling his eyes at each agent.

"Has he made any attempts to sell it, Mr. Waverly?" Kuryakin asked.

"No. I am almost certain Mr. Calburn is unaware of the power he holds. Which makes it all the more imperative to seek this weapon and have it destroyed. It must be found, lady, gentlemen. It must be found immediately."

Waverly looked at each of the three agents before turning his attention to Solo and continuing.

"He is delusional, recreating the club he had when Miss Wellesley was still a part of his life. Intelligence has indicated that his brother's death may have pushed him over the edge. He has no one now except his employees. Such is the man who holds the world's fate in his hands. Should he realize what he possesses…we are in a dire situation. I have no doubt he would sell it to the highest bidder…given his past."

The screen changed to that of an antique pocket watch, the gold trim nearly blinding to the eye.

"This is the watch," Waverly continued. "Wilford Calburn sent this picture along with the letter. It is a treasured family heirloom of little value. You see the grandfather was a poor man who had only this watch to treasure. Since his death over forty years ago, it has been passed to first the father and then Wilford. It was Wilford Calburn's idea of putting it in a watch. A sort of legacy to be passed down."

"I don't understand, sir. Why would he tell us of its existence and even provide a picture of it?" April asked.

"Simple. He was not aware of the power of the devise. You see he disarmed it, thereby making it useless. However what he didn't know is that even if it is disarmed, the very material it is made of presents a danger."

"Danger?" Napoleon asked.

"Indeed, Mr. Solo. You see, only after Mr. Calburn died did we discover a flaw in his design. The bomb will explode if exposed to extreme heat, such as fire,"

"And Wilford didn't know about that?" Illya asked.

"Unfortunately, test did not indicate the flaw until later. Once the devise was destroyed, we saw no reason in dredging it up."

"Has anyone tried to retrieve it?" Illya asked.

"Yes, we've made several attempts. To no avail. It is possible that it is hidden somewhere that we are unaware of or that he carries it on his person. In short, we've checked all of his homes. We've checked his deposit boxes. We cannot afford to alert him to the importance of the watch. We must therefore be discreet."

"How should we proceed?" Napoleon asked, his heart hammering.

"We go in, Mr. Solo. We go in. And soon."

**Chapter Seven**

The plan was set within days. Each of them would become a part of Thomas Calburn's life, befriending those he knew, observing his every move, becoming his best friend if possible. And most importantly, they were to avoid his discovery. They couldn't afford to let Calburn know power he held.

Now, Solo sat alone in his office going over the material that would help to save the world from a horrible fate. Solo focused on Calburn. The man didn't have many friends and went through women like they were nothing more than playthings. While Solo could relate to the man's appetite for women, there seemed something cold and calculating about the way Calburn did it--He dated only the very young, women who had an innocence about them. Women who were malleable in other words. He would hire them to sing at his nightclub, offering them a start to a career in show business. He had contacts around the world that more than ensured any woman of success and he flaunted it to his best advantage. Of course his intention was only to imprison them, make them into the woman they could never be: Sabrina Wellesley.

No one had seen a picture of Sabrina because Calburn had ordered them all destroyed, but descriptions indicated that she had light red hair and brown eyes. She was a beautiful woman with a talent to match. And Calburn had loved her. Napoleon was pretty sure he'd killed her as well, but finding Sabrina's family or anything about her past had led to a dead end. She was a woman who had never existed. And Calburn was a monster who killed her over and over again in the women who followed.

So now six women had disappeared. Was Sabrina the first? Was that what was meant by the sixth victim? Had April become confused, misinterpreting her vision to mean another life would be claimed when in fact six women were already dead?

Solo read through the interview of one of the women lucky to get away. Cindy Houghton said that Calburn suffocated her, demanding that she never leave his sight. She'd eventually come to her senses and left him. "I consider myself lucky to have gotten away," she'd said at the time of the interview, safe back home with her parents. "He threatened me. Made me feel I was nothing without him. I never doubted that he would have killed me if he had the chance," she'd continued. "But I have five brothers who put the fear of God into him."

Napoleon continued to read how the woman had been only twenty-one when she met him. How he had her color her hair to a light red color. How he taught her how to walk and talk like Sabrina. She was his prized protégée. But then one day, she grew up and wanted to leave. And Calburn was livid, threatening to ruin her career. And he had told her that he would see her dead before he let her go. It had taken stealth on her part to escape into the night and seek the protection of her family. Yet even now she was afraid for her life.

So Calburn had gone on, looking for the love of his life in every woman and never finding her, Solo thought.

Solo picked up a picture of an attractive blonde woman. Her name was Cynthia Skylar and she'd been Thomas Calburn's assistant for the past twenty-five years. She'd been there when Sabrina was a part of Calburn's life, but before that they'd been lovers, living together for several years. Now she was his confidant and sometimes lover, the woman many had said made him a rich man.

Cynthia had been educated in the best schools. Solo figured the woman had to be in love with Calburn to give up the outstanding career her education could have afforded her. Now she was forty-five, never married, and had no children. Not an enviable position for most women. Solo felt sorry for her. She was still attractive, but wasting her life on a man who would never love her.

Solo picked the next picture up. It was a man of about thirty with short, brown hair and delicate features. John Philip worked under Cynthia, but he was a friend of Calburn. Many described him as an opportunist who was waiting for Cynthia Skylar to vacate her position so he could take over. But that wasn't likely to happen. Thomas trusted Cynthia implicitly, still relying on her business acumen. An acumen he lacked.

Napoleon sighed. Within a few days, everything would be in place. April had already gotten a job at the club as a waitress. Her job was to keep an eye on things going on at the club, and to grab Calburn's attention if possible. Napoleon hadn't wanted her in on the case for the obvious reasons, but there weren't that many female UNCLE agents available. In fact, three years after April had been recruited; there were scarcely more than ten female agents around the world.

And then there was Illya. He'd used his musical talent to secure a position in the band. He'd let it slip that he was also a voice coach— that in case they needed it later. April was going in as a waitress, but they all figured that Calburn would hire her as a singer once he got a look at her since he'd never replaced the last girl.

As for Napoleon, he would be a customer who catches the eye of Cynthia Skylar. He hoped to garner information from her that would lead him to the bomb.

Napoleon leaned forward, his shoulders hunched, the weight of the world seemingly on them. He felt like a clock was ticking, the sound growing louder as time passed. He had no doubt Thomas Calburn was the man in April's vision. And somehow it would end with death. He could only hope the death would be his.

TBC


	2. Part 2

**The Sixth Victim**

**By M. Willow**

**Part Two**

**Chapter Eight**

Two weeks had passed since Waverly had called them to his office. Napoleon watched the gathering at the _Pink Martini_. It was no easy endeavor. The place was decorated with large palm trees and separated into discrete corners and dark alcoves that made it difficult to see everyone at once. But what was plain to see was the presence of Thomas Calburn. The man reeked of nervous energy and power. He'd taken possession of April the minute he saw her, telling her that she had a talent that would make her the next great singer. He'd said that before even hearing her sing a single note. Now she was the talent extraordinaire, the _Satin Doll_, as she had come to be known. And April had fallen into the role with alacrity.

Again, Napoleon was mesmerized by how well she'd transformed herself into the woman Calburn desired. She'd played it off well—part child, all woman, a blend that kept the man wanting more, yet she had not given it, playing the part of the virtuous tease to the hilt, every bit the lady Sabrina Wellesley had been. And she was a talented singer, weaving the lyrics into stories, strong with emotion.

The Satin Doll would sing, draped over a piano, the entire audience silently watching her as she wove tales of love and woe. But it was Sabrina's signature song that brought the house down and left little doubt of what Calburn would do in the future. It was the _Tennessee Waltz_--the song he loved above all others. It had been her song.

Solo watched the man seemingly enter a trance whenever she sang it. And now it had become April's signature song.

Napoleon watched the beautiful red-head. April had colored her hair a vivid shade of red. He was surprised to discover it had been her natural hair color. She dyed it a darker shade in order to blend in better. "Red hair stands out too much," she'd said. But in this instance, it had been Calburn's request to dye it red.

"Color your hair, baby," he'd said. "It's gonna look better on you." And April had complied and slowly changed into the woman Calburn dreamed of. It sickened Solo to watch the transformation, yet he'd seen her do it before, back when she was pretending to be Vixen. Of course at that time it was something that she wanted. And it had happened right in front of his eyes. But this case was different because Calburn was forcing the change by sure force of will. Illya had argued that April was in full control, but Napoleon knew better. She was obsessed, obsessed with bringing Calburn to justice. She would do anything to achieve it and that scared him most of all. An obsessed agent made mistakes. Costly mistakes. An obsessed agent would put themselves in danger just to achieve a goal.

"Penny for your thoughts, darling?" the voluptuous blonde said as she snuggled in close to him in the tiny both.

Solo kissed Cynthia Skylar deeply, letting his tongue explore her mouth. He was nearly breathless when they came up for air.

"Just thinking about you." He smiled, taking in the woman who sat next to him. She was all satin and pearls, the green dress clinging to every curve, the perfume he found so intoxicating. Solo felt a familiar stirring when he thought how easy it would be to slip the dress from her shoulders and smoother her with kisses. And so had been their relationship—marathon sex, followed by hours of trying to discretely illicit information from her. She was an innocent by all means, but he could not afford to let his like or desire for the woman make him back down from his original intentions. She was Thomas Claburn's assistant, the woman who'd made him the rich man he was today. She held a wealth of information that could ultimately lead to their goal.

"I bet," she said, laughter lighting her emerald eyes, her voice deep and throaty. She snapped her fingers at the waitress who passed and ordered a martini, then lit a cigarette, taking a deep draw from it. "You're probably dreaming of the Satin Doll just like every other red-blooded male in the room.

Solo leaned over and nibbled her ear. "You're the only woman for me." Then he claimed her lips again, recalling the first time he'd met her.

Cynthia Skylar had come into the secret casino at the back of the club and saddled up to him at the bar. They had struck up a conversation about life in general. It had always been his intentions to befriend the woman on some level, but never had he imagined that it would be romantic. Few women desired a younger lover, at least not the women he'd been with. Most women her age were content to seek a man nearer their own age. But Cynthia was no ordinary woman. She was intelligent without flaunting it. She was a woman who was assured of her position in life, who needed no one to tell her she was important. She just knew it.

Cynthia spent her life among the jet set, hopping from country to country, wielding the power Calburn lent her. If she had ever been in love with the man, Solo was convinced that had long past. Calburn was merely her keys to the kingdom. The man she'd built from the grown up in a world that would have turned their back on her merely because she was female.

Still, she was a puzzle to him. He'd expected a woman who mooned over a man she would never have. Instead he found a woman who seemed to want to marry Thomas for his power, but she wasn't waiting for him. Not by long shot. They were in bed the first date.

Solo found her to be a splendid lover, giving and receiving to a level he'd never experienced, leaving Solo breathless, and yes, feeling guilty for using the woman.

"I once loved Thomas. And perhaps, to a certain level, I still do." She'd said one night after they had made love. "But I'm too old for him. He wants someone he can mold. Someone that won't argue with him when he's wrong. And that's not me."

"Then why do you stay?" he had asked.

"Because it would be difficult for me to start over at my age. I would be out there competing with men and women half my age. It's difficult enough for a woman in a man's world, but at my age I wouldn't stand a chance. And then there's the money of course. Lots and lots of money. As his assistant I command a large staff. I fly around the world, meeting people of importance. Rubbing shoulders with everyone from the president to the biggest stars in Hollywood. And every now and then, I take a lover."

And so had been there relationship—him falling deeper into lust and the case moving nowhere.

"Why don't we go back to my place and make some music of our own." She whispered in his ear, bringing Solo back to the present. "I've got a lot to do tonight, but I can spare some time."

"I think I can figure out what to do with that time," he said, standing and taking her hand.

He looked back as they were leaving. April was leaving the stage, the applause thunderous. Solo felt like his world was spiraling out of control.

0000

April shook with the adrenalin that came from performing on stage. Looking around her opulent dressing room, she eyed the flowers that covered nearly every bit of space. She loved flowers, but not theses. Calburn had sent them. Sent them nearly every day and after every performance. She steeled herself for his arrival now. He always came in, pawing her with his hot hands, kissing her with a passion she didn't feel. She had allowed it because she needed answers, but the deeper part of her wanted to end the terror that haunted her nightly.

The dreams had continued, becoming more and more vivid. She hadn't had another vision, but even that bothered her. What did it mean when the visions ceased? Did it mean she and Napoleon were out of danger? Or was it merely the calm before the storm?

April sat down at the dressing table. Calburn was a man not to be put off so she'd arranged a romantic tryst that had everything to do with finding information and nothing to do with romance. Thankfully, UNCLE had developed a drug that she'd fondly called "April's Drug" because the drug could make a person think they'd had the best night of sex ever. It drew on the fantasies of the person, giving them literally the desires of their dreams. The only drawback—the recipient slept for at least four hours, which meant it was useless at the club since Calburn was interrupted nearly every half-hour with one problem or another.

She had not slept with him, but she knew in her heart that she would go that far if needed. The safety of the world was at stake and the case was personal. She had felt the pain of the woman in her visions. Felt her slow death. She was a part of this now—a sort of fate, she thought. She would not allow her sense of morality to impede the investigation.

The knock at the door made her heart skip a beat. "Come in," she said standing, smoothing her dress. Thomas Calburn walked in, his cold blue eyes sweeping the room and her as if they were one and the same. He was tall, solidly built, the type of man who commanded attention by his mere presence and knew it. He moved like a panther—proud, sleek, ready to strike.

"Come here," he commanded in his deep voice. And April dutifully obeyed, playing the role to the hilt, calling on the skills she'd learned in acting school. This was her role, the room her stage.

She looked down as he took her chin in his hand.

"You were marvelous," he said.

She smiled broadly, letting her pleasure in his satisfaction show. "I was so afraid that you wouldn't like it."

"Of course I liked it, baby. That's why I paid the big bucks to that voice coach of yours."

The voice lessons were given by Illya Kuryakin. They had been started when Calburn had discovered the Russian's talent and after April had literally made a fool of herself on stage that first night.

She remembered with a shudder how Calburn had fumed, accusing her of deliberately being horrible. He'd slapped her across the face and left her boiling with rage that she'd had to stand there and take the abuse.

Later Calburn found out his new band member had talent with all things musical through the careful padding of Illya's resume. A week later he'd hired the Russian to coach her. It had been Solo's idea after he'd seen the bruise that spread along her jaw line. So Illya was her protector of sorts even though she didn't feel she needed one.

"You were good, baby. Real good," he continued, fingering her breast with his left hand.

April moved back from the touch. "Tonight. I want our first time to be memorable, darling."

Calburn smiled indulgently. "As you wish. But I want you to know that after tonight, you'll be completely mine. Everything you are, everything you will be is because of me. I put the clothes on your back. I'm the one that's gonna make you a star. You're nothing without me and you better remember it."

He grabbed her wrists forcefully, pulling her to him. "You got that baby? You're mine just like everything else in this room."

April forced a trembling voice, but she wasn't entirely acting. When Thomas was like that she was genuinely afraid.

"I know I'm yours. I'm nothing without you," she murmured.

The words nearly stuck in her throat. It was too much like her childhood, her domineering father making her feel less than human, watching her mother cater to her father's whims. It sickened her to this day and now she was doing it. Practically licking the boots of the man who would be her killer. As weak as her mother had been with her domineering father.

"See that you don't forget it," he said, releasing her.

"Thank you, Thomas," she continued, eyes downcast, rubbing her wrist, "It was all your doing. If you hadn't hired me, I would never have gotten my start."

He smiled. "Of course, I know talent when I see it. You're going places, baby. To the top with me there every step of the way. You'll see."

"You don't know what that means to me," she said, hoping he couldn't grasp her true meaning. She despised the man more every day. She leaned in for a kiss. He claimed her lips with complete abandonment, running his hands over her body, fondling her breast.

A knock at the door interrupted his intentions.

"Come in," she ordered as she straightened her dress and hair.

Illya opened the door, taking in her appearance and Calburn's at the same time.

"We've got a problem with the stage lighting, Mr. Calburn," he said, leaving April little doubt that he had arranged the entire thing.

Calburn gave the Russian a withering glare. "I'll see to it," he said sharply, turning to her and planting a lingering kiss on her lips, not seeming to care that they had an audience.

"Tonight, baby," he said, his sky-blue eyes meeting hers.

Illya cleared his throat. "Miss Lane," Illya said, using her fake name of April Lane. "I need to go over a few discrepancies with the act."

She looked at Calburn questioningly.

"Sure, I want you to be the best singer in the world. Do what is needed, Illya," he said as he exited the room. Thomas left the door open a crack, clearly indicating that he didn't trust her alone with the Russian.

Now she released the breath she had been holding and regarded Illya who was clearly embarrassed. He'd witnessed the affection between her and Calburn, knew of their tryst later that night. It was something that made her face burn with shame.

_Are you okay?_ He asked with his eyes. She nodded a silent yes, but she was lying. She was in over her head and knew it. Even now she felt the walls closing in on her, making her want to run somewhere and hide.

Her voice was shaky as she spoke, "So what do we need to change about my performance?"

**Chapter Nine**

"April is our best chance at getting into Calburn's place," Illya said to his pacing partner who'd arrived just over an hour ago.

Solo had been tired when he walked in, but came fully awake when he heard where April would be spending the night. Illya knew it was inevitable. They needed to search Calburn's place again in case the watch had been moved there. And they needed to search him.

"I know, but I don't have to like it." Solo said, practically glaring at the Russian.

"We've got everything in place. She has the knockout drops that will make him think they…"

"Don't remind me," Solo said, pacing to the window. "I know. He gets the knockout drops before anything can happen. She continues the relationship hot and heavy. That should buy us more time to find the bomb, but we've got to move fast. Now that the relationship has started, it could happen any day."

The hotel they were in was located across the street from the club, the pink flashing neon sign casting a pink glow across the room. It was a requirement for all band members to stay at the hotel that Calburn owned, but Illya had come to hate the room, knowing that it was possibly connected to April's visions. Would she answer the telephone in this room, he wondered? Would she answer it and somehow end up in the arms of a madman?

Napoleon wrinkled his nose, pulling a chair over to sit next to the Russian. who lay on the bed with his hands tucked behind his head as he stared up at the ceiling.

"Come on Illya. I just can't sit here and do nothing."

Illya looked at his partner and saw the worry etched on his face. The Russian braced himself for the request he knew was coming. Nearly a month ago, Napoleon had asked him to save April at all cost. He'd made it an order which Illya had refused to obey. Napoleon had backed down, partly because he still held hope that they would find another way of dealing with the problem. But now it seemed the chances of finding a resolution were bleak, so he waited for the request he didn't want to honor.

Napoleon locked eyes with Illya. When he spoke his voice was barely above a whisper. "I have never felt so useless. She's with a murderer. A man who plans to seduce her. And I'm sitting here in a hotel talking to you."

Illya sat up, facing his best friend. "I know it can't be easy…"

"You don't know the half of it." Napoleon said sharply, his features flashing from anger to apology.

"I'm sorry. I'm not myself." He leaned forward, cradling his head. When he looked up Illya could see the hopelessness in his eyes.

Napoleon ran a hand through his hair. "I'm tired, Tovarish. I'm tired of seeing my two best friends constantly in danger. I'm tired of standing by idly while it happens."

"We will have this solved soon. You'll see."

"I don't know if I can handle it if something happens to April, Illya. I know we talked about this before. But I'm asking again, as a friend, as your best friend." He closed his eyes, his head dropping, his voice shaky. "You've got to promise me that you'll save her."

"I'll do everything in my power to save both of you."

Napoleon shook his head, his eyes opening as he spoke, "I need more, Tovarish. I need to know if given the choice you'll save April."

And there it was. The request that scared him more than anything. How could he promise to let his best friend die? He had a deep regard for April. She was one of his closest friends, but if it meant saving her life and losing Napoleon, he didn't know if he could do it.

"April has made the same request of me," he said slowly, feeling like he'd broken a confidence, but needing to say it.

Napoleon nodded his head. "I know, but my life's not worth a dime if she's…if she's…" his voice broke. Napoleon stopped speaking, averting his gaze, taking deep breaths. Illya could see his friend struggling to control his emotions.

"Promise me, Illya. Promise me that no matter what happens, you'll save her. I don't care what happens to me. You've got to save her."

The room was quiet as the two men sat, each locked in their own private hell. Could Illya watch Napoleon die, a man that meant more to him than life itself? Could he walk away, live with the knowledge that things could have been different? But then he remembered Lisa, how much he loved her, the feel of her, the taste of her, the life so quickly taken away, the life they would never have. He felt a need for her that existed to this day, would probably be there the rest of his life. He'd lost her and his life was incomplete because of it. If he could, he would have laid down his life to save the woman he loved. If he could. But she was dead.

He looked at him now, seeing the love, the desperation, of a man fighting for the woman he loved, for Illya believed Napoleon did love April even if he wasn't aware of it. It was that man that he felt the string of commonality. They were both men in love with a woman, only Napoleon still had a chance.

"I promise you that I will do everything in my power to save April. I shall not let you down. You have my word."

Napoleon released a breath. "Thank you, Tovarish. It means a lot to me."

But Illya knew the price he would pay for that promise.

**Chapter Ten**

Mark sat in front of Thomas Calburn's house. He was lucky the man lived on a busy street. No one would ever notice the car that sat there for hours on end. Call it old-fashioned, but he hated to think what could be going on in there. Several times he'd thought of barging in, but he had the listening devise, the sender of which had been placed discretely in her purse. So far he'd heard heavy breathing that made him feel like a voyeur peering through the window at a couple who were making love.

"That's a worrisome thought," he said, thinking of how such a tryst would affect the woman he'd come to think of as a sister. But she had the drug.

"Waverly is too much of a gentleman to allow me to compromise my virtue," she'd joked once when the drug had first been invented.

There was a lot of truth in that statement. Waverly was an old world gentleman who expected even the male agents to adhere to a high moral standard. But, although the drug was offered to all enforcement agents, few men cared to use it. Most of them were more than willing to fulfill a woman's desires. Indeed Mark had only used it once himself and that for a rather insistent man. "There was only so much a bloke could be expected to do in the line of duty," he'd said.

Now he looked up as the bedroom lights went out. The plain was for April to get Calburn into bed then use one of two methods of administering the drug. She could either put a few drops in his drink or use the needle treated with the stuff that was embedded in the ring she wore. Either way he would be out for at least four hours. There were no servants. April had seen to that by telling Calburn that she wanted to be alone with him for their first time thus making him more than willing to dismiss everyone for their tryst that night. Once he was suitably disposed of, Mark and April would search his house for the watch and April would search Calburn.

Mark sighed in frustration. A mission had kept him off the case even after he'd found out about April's visions. He'd then had to beg Waverly to let him in on the case. It had been difficult. Lately Waverly was moving away from teaming the same agents together all the time. He wanted a more fluid team, one that could be matched with any partner and perform efficiently. Mark understood that need. They had a dangerous business and a person only used to working with one individual would suffer greatly if something happened to him. Mark had seen it himself—one partner dying, the other left unable to cope and finally resigning himself.

Still, Waverly didn't know the whole story. April's life was in jeopardy and Mark wanted to make sure no harm came to her. She was important to him—the sister he'd always wanted. But he couldn't just go blazing into Waverly's office and demand to have a bigger part in the case because it was still a secret that April was psychic.

Mark started when he saw the flicker of the upstairs light. It was April's signal that Calburn was safely out of the way and they could begin the search. He jumped from the car and moved quickly to the house. April was standing there, a robe tied around her waist, her hair in disarray. Mark said nothing as he entered the house and started to search the first floor.

It was a plainly decorated house, but large with at least thirty rooms. It was going to take some time to search the entire house. Mark was grateful that the _April Drug_ would keep Calburn out for at least four hours.

Mark headed for the living room while April went back upstairs to search. It seemed Calburn was a neat person. The sparcely furnished room had nothing out of place, making it very easy to search. After three hours, they gave up. The watch had not been found.

"Nothing, absolutely nothing," she said, her Boston accent unusually sharp. "I found only one watch and it looked nothing like the one we need."

"Didn't think we would find anything here, luv. I think he has it somewhere else."

"Every property he owns has been discretely searched. We've got to find it. I want off this case. I'm tired of spending day after day with him. Knowing what he is. Knowing what he's capable of. He killed her, Mark. Took that damn scarf and chocked her till she died."

Mark met her eyes, seeing the pain reflected there. "We're going to stop this bastard. You'll see."

He stood, heading for the door. "I'll be right out front. That guy even looks at you funny, you give the signal."

April smiled indulgently. "I know. I say, "I think it's going to rain."

"Yes, and I come charging in here."

Mark opened the door and headed to the car. He looked back at the house. A wasted day and no closer to their goal.

The next day Mark was sitting in a coffee shop waiting for John Philips. He'd met the man at the Pink Martini and struck up a conversation. They hit it off and now met nearly everyday to have coffee before the club opened. They had a lot in common like their interest in golf, women, and a love of rock music. Philip's was an opportunist, a man who hoped to replace Cynthia one day, but move even beyond that.

"I'll not settle for crumbs," he'd said one day over coffee. And then he had explained how he wanted to head one of Calburn's companies. Perhaps overseas. He had a lot to choose from. Calburn had his hand nearly into everything, from the occasional hobby such as Pink Martini, to companies that dealt with imports and exports. In addition, he was heavily involved in the stock market. All in all Calburn was guaranteed that he would never worry for money. And Cynthia had been the mind behind the man. Her reward—the jet set life she led, mingling with kings and queens and the like. But Philip's wanted more than a jet set life. He wanted the kingdom.

Mark looked up as Philips entered the coffee shop. The man looked edgy, like he'd found out something and was upset about it. Mark's heart quickened. Was this the break they were looking for? Would John tell him something that would lead to the watch?

John sat, snapping his finger at the waitress as he did so.

"I can't believe he did this to me," he said, as the waitress came over and poured a cup of his usual black coffee. He took a deep sip, eyeing Mark. "He wants me to shop for his latest woman. He told me that I'm officially working for her now."

Mark felt himself feeling sorry for the man in spite of himself.

"So what are you going to do?"

Philip's shrugged. "I don't know. Look for another job I guess."

Mark sat back, pulling a face. "At your salary?"

Philips made at least three times his worth. It was going to be hard to find something to equal his current salary.

"Didn't say it was going to be easy. But, I'll at least have my dignity," Philips said, looking a dejected man. "It wouldn't be so bad if it was just once in a while. But he'll have me serving his women until the end of time and I think more of myself than that. I don't intend to wind up like that pitiful mess Cynthia."

Philip's hung his head. "Funny thing is I used to respect him, hope to have a life like him one day. But this thing he's got for women half his age. Always trying to get Sabrina back. Well…it's just not normal. Now he wants me to serve them. Can you imagine? It was bad enough taking orders from that bitch Cynthia, but serving those scatterbrained women…I've got a Harvard degree, for Pete's sake. And he wants me to be a gopher!"

"But a high-priced gopher," Mark added.

"Well, moneys not everything," Philips said grudgingly. But Mark knew John would never leave. Money to him was everything and if it meant serving the Satin Doll, Philips would do it in a heartbeat.

Mark decided to take advantage of John's anger and find out more about Sabrina.

"I know you talked about his thing with women before, but I still don't get it. What's so important about Sabrina?"

"She was the woman of his dreams," Philip said, mockingly. "I never met her, but I heard she was a looker. Red hair, great figure and class. They said she reeked of class. But she was smart enough to get out of here. Probably because Thomas was starting his smothering act."

"Smothering act?"

"Yeah," Philip's said, clearly warming to the subject. "First he falls in love. Then he insists that they drop everything in their life for him. No family. No friends. Just him."

Mark noticed that Philips sounded like he was talking about more than Sabrina.

"I've seen three of them since I've worked for him, but there have been others. It's always the same—find them, change them into Sabrina, make them totally dependent on him. The smart ones get out. The others…" Philips took a sip of the coffee, regarding Mark with hooded eyes. "Always starts the same. Always ends the same."

Mark raised and eyebrow.

"I'm not kidding," Philip said, leaning closer. "The smart ones, they leave. But the others stick around till he's tired of trying to make them into something they'll never be. Then he dumps them and makes sure they can't find a job anywhere. He's got enough power to do it, too."

Mark tried to steady his voice. "So what do you think happens to them?"

"Who knows? I guess they crawl back into the obscurity they came out of. You know, fifteen minutes of fame and all."

Philips stood and threw a few coins on the table. "Well, I got to get going. Got a dame to shop for. Want to get together later tonight?"

Mark shook his head. "I can't. My boss has an assignment for me. I'll see you tomorrow."

Late in the afternoon April sat at a table in the Pink Martini going over her act for the night. Actually she hoped to see Cynthia. She and Cynthia had become good friends since she had started at the club, but there was something about the woman that made April uncomfortable. She wasn't sure if it was her sixth sense, or just something she was picking up, some random feelings. Nevertheless, she steeled herself for Cynthia's arrival. If she hoped to get something out of her, she would need to keep up the façade of a budding friendship.

April looked up as another musician appeared. So far four of the guys were there, but Illya wasn't expected for at least another hour. April yawned. She'd had a difficult night with several nightmares, all showing the same scenario with Illya deciding who lived. And Calburn had been there the entire time. Thankfully he was too tired after their imagined lovemaking to make a play for her.

April was deep in thought when she saw Cynthia breeze into the club. She looked positively radiant in a blue suit, blonde hair pulled into a chignon. She had the look that many women wore after spending the night with Napoleon. April smiled in spite of herself.

Cynthia spotted April and came over, green eyes sparkling as she slipped into the chair adjacent to hers. She fanned herself before speaking, "Damn it's hot outside. What brings you here a full two hours before opening?"

"Got a few new songs to add to the act. I just wanted to go over them with the ban."

Cynthia leaned closer to her. "I'm surprised your boyfriend isn't here."

Illya had been coming to her dressing room daily to check on her. No one had questioned it, believing the Russian was helping her with the act. That is until now. April knew denying a relationship with the blond would be suspicious. Cynthia was not a stupid woman. April decided to go along with the game and knotted her face in confusion.

"You mean Thomas?"

Cynthia laughed. "Only if you don't know the truth."

April's heart was beating fast, but she kept her face impassive. She knew it was the perfect time to do a little female bonding.

April looked around as if she were checking to make sure their conversation wouldn't be overheard. "What ever you do, don't tell," she said. "We girls have got to stick together."

Cynthia laughed. "So tell me, how long have you two been an item?"

"About a week. We tried to fight it, but what can I say. You've seen him. What girl could resist?"

Cynthia laughed. "Don't I know it. I made a play for him a couple of times myself, but he didn't seem to know I existed. I finally gave up and went for more willing prey."

"You mean that handsome man I saw you with last night,"

"Who else?"

"Well you've got to tell me all about him."

Cynthia leaned back in her chair, her expression wistful. "Nothing much to tell. His name is Nathan Stone. I haven't known him long, but I think it could work out. Who knows, maybe my luck will change and I wind up married with a couple of kids. Adopted kids of course."

"Just take it slow, Cynthia. You two haven't known each other that long."

"I know and I will. To tell the truth it makes me sort of nervous to get this involved with a guy." She looked down at her coffee. "Usually it's all about sex. It's why I like younger men—great sex. But this time. I don't know." She met April's eyes. "Maybe this time it will be more."

April touched the woman's hand. "I hope so for your sake. Just remember to take your time."

"And the same for you. Thomas finds out about your affair and you can kiss your career goodbye. Thomas makes the Hollywood blacklist look like nothing. You won't be able to find a job on the planet when he's through with you."

"I know. I heard. Strange isn't it, how the girls disappear?"

"Not really. I've known a few of the women pretty well. Some were opportunist who thought they could pull the wool over his eyes. Thomas plays it dumb, but he's sharper than people think. He found out what they were about in a heart beat and sent them packing."

April nodded knowingly. "How does he act when the relationship is over?"

Cynthia took a deep breath, and then looked at her pointedly. "Like he always does when he finds out the woman he loves isn't working out. He ranted and raved, fucked me just for the hell of it, and moved on to the next bimbo."

April pulled a face and Cynthia had the decency to look apologetic. "Sorry. Present company excluded. But that's what he does. He finds women he can mold. Me, I'm just around when he doesn't feel like looking for the next girl."

"I don't understand. Why aren't you two together? You told me you once had a relationship with him. Don't you want it again?"

Cynthia looked wistful. "Been a long time since I wanted anything with him. Now I just want the money. Lots and lots of money." Cynthia pulled a face. "Oh don't get me wrong. I know it makes me sound shallow as hell, but when you get to my age you learn quickly. It's all about the money. If he asked me to marry him, I would, but it would still be about the money."

"Still---," April started.

"Listen, honey. As long as beautiful women like you keep showing up, I don't' stand a chance. He likes 'em young. Hell, I like 'em young."

For as second, Cynthia's features darkened and April felt a chill. Just as quickly the smile returned and Cynthia was her usual cheerful self.

"Does it bother you…seeing him with other women? Seeing him with me?"

Cynthia smiled, "Hell no," she leaned closer to April. "I've seen his women come and go. As much as I like you, you'll be lucky to see the end of the year. Me…well I've got a permanent position. I get to rub shoulders with the rich and famous. He sees to my financial needs. I've got homes around the world and more money than I'll ever spend. If I were one of his women, I would be long gone by now. So no, it doesn't bother me one bit to see him with you or any other woman."

April wasn't sure she believed her. How could anyone settle for money, when the love of a man was worth so much more? One day April looked forward to having a family and spending the rest of her life with the man she loved. She could never settle for less.

Cynthia continued. "Listen, you're young. You think love and marriage is everything. But I saw my parents divorce. Watched my mother scrubbing floors to take care of us because my father wouldn't part with a dime. I don't want to end up that way. Old before my time."

Cynthia sat back in her chair, then drew out her compact and checked her makeup. She was smoothing her hair as she spoke. April was struck by how flawless the woman's skin was. She didn't have a line on her face. "One day you'll see what I mean, once every man in your life has kicked you in the teeth, left you with dreams that would never be fulfilled. With money you can buy what you want. It is the only way a woman can truly be happy."

"And if it's not enough?" April asked. "If in the end you find you really want the husband, the children?"

"Then you buy it. You buy what you want."

Cynthia's voice seemed to harden as she continued. "Nathan Stone is a beautiful man. He's also over ten years younger than me. Do you think he wants me for myself?" She shook her head. "No. He sees the power, the money, the excitement of being with a woman like me. It's an aphrodisiac. I like him enough to want a future with him, but I'm not fooling myself. He'll stick around as long as I have money."

April had to control her temper. Napoleon had spoken to her about Cynthia. She knew that he generally liked her, even felt guilty about lying to the woman. To hear Cynthia speak so callously about her friend made her see the woman in a different light. She seemed cold, calculating. In the world Cynthia lived in, people were bought and sold. She was much like her employer in that regard.

April spoke, "I only hope you will see your value one day. You're beautiful, intelligent, any man would be lucky to have you in his life."

Cynthia smiled, putting the compact away and regarding her with a condescending smile. "So young," she said. And then she stood. "I've got to go. Thomas has a ton of paperwork waiting for me. See you later." And then she was gone

**Chapter Eleven**

Another two weeks passed and they still hadn't found the watch. Napoleon was at the end of his patience. Now he sat at the back of the club, dancing couples and soft music surrounding him. He was going to ask for Cynthia's help. And it wasn't because he trusted her. He was a desperate man—desperate to see the case end before it cost lives. April's life. Try as he might, he couldn't seem to get around the fact that April safety was foremost on his mind. It wasn't that he failed to see the danger of the bomb; it was just that emotionally she was more important. He had to get her away from Calburn as quickly as possible and that meant trusting Cynthia Skylar.

Cynthia, the woman he had fallen quickly in lust with. The woman who'd become his lover. So much like Angelique in appearance, she nevertheless shared another trait with the Thrush spy—she was dangerous. It was a feeling that crept slowly over Solo. There was just something about her—something too deliberate about her actions. Sometimes when he looked at her, it was like looking at another person, someone who harbored dark secretes. But now she was also his only hope. They could either sit around and hope the damnable man would suddenly appear wearing the watch, spend all eternity searching for it, or find someone who was part of his inner circle.

He'd quickly eliminated using John Philip. The man simply wasn't a part of the inner circle. Most of his time was spent catering to April's needs. That left Cynthia, but no way was he planning to tell her what the watch actually held. Instead, he would tell her that they were searching for a microdot.

Now, he watched as she entered the club. She was wearing a figure-hugging silver, lamiae dress and she had the attention of nearly every man in the club. He squelched his natural response to her as she sashayed across the floor. Cynthia stood in front of him, hands placed seductively on her hips.

"Why don't we skip the drinks," she said, her voice low and deliberately sexy. "I can't wait to get you alone."

She put out her hand and Solo took it, taking a final look back as April left the stage.

The club had been officially closed over an hour ago and April couldn't wait for Calburn to leave. She had crossed the line and felt dirty because of it. It had all started innocently enough. She was alone with him and he was pawing her as usual. She could hardly give him a drug that would knock him out for at least four hours in a club that seemed to need him constantly, so she'd allowed his advances.

He looked at her as he got dressed, his eyes making her feel like a whore who'd provided a service and was waiting to be paid.

"That was good, baby," he said zipping his pants. "Just remember you're mine. I don't want nobody else to have you. You're mine. Got it baby?"

"I know," she said timidly, hating herself for saying it. "I owe you everything."

It had become a farce between them. He would tell her she was nothing and she would agree. He stood in front of the mirror straightening his tie. "Yeah, you hit the jackpot when you got me, baby. The fucking jackpot."

April moved up behind him, putting her arms around his waist, and resting her head on his back. "I'm a lucky girl, alright"

"Well, get dressed," he said, fastening his belt. "I've got to go check on a few things then we'll head out to my place. I got plans for us if you know what I mean." He pulled her into a quick embrace then headed out of the room.

April turned to look at her nude body in the mirror as if she expected to see a change in her appearance. She'd been with men before, but there was always a deep regard for them, a possibility of a future. But with Thomas there was only death. And the sex had been purely animalistic, devoid of emotions. So as she looked into the mirror, she expected to see the woman who'd allowed Thomas Calburn to touch her. The woman who'd sold her soul to the devil.

A knock at the door alerted her to Illya's presence. She knew who it was because she had been the one to tell him not to barge in until Calburn was gone. The Russian had fought her on it, but she held firm, telling him how important it was to gain Calburn's trust. At all cost. But now she was paying.

"Just a moment," she said, quickly throwing on her discarded lingerie that still lay crumpled on the floor followed by the dress.

"Come in." She stared straight ahead at her reflection as the Russian came to stand behind her. She couldn't face him, not after what had just happened.

"Are you okay?" Illya asked quietly.

But she couldn't find her voice. What she had done wasn't bad considering her motivations. He'd claimed her body, taking possession of her as if she were an object—something to be bought and sold. And she had done things that she wasn't proud of. But was it right that the rules were different for female agents? A woman was a slut if she slept with a man. A man was a playboy. It was the late 1960's and the rules were changing, but slowly. So now she stood like a woman of the Victorian era, ashamed of what she'd done, wanting to hide her face. But the man who looked back at her showed no judgment.

"I'll be fine," she said, taking her seat at the vanity table and grabbing a sponge to retouch her makeup.

"April…" Illya started.

But she couldn't bear to hear what he had to say. What was done was done and it wouldn't be the last time she might have to face making just such a decision. When it came to saving the world, or her virtue, the decision was clear. She would have to learn to put aside her feelings to get the job done.

She looked at the reflection of the blond in the mirror. He was standing near, his face a study in understanding, anger and quiet resolve for what she had suffered.

"I can't talk about it, okay?" she said, her voice unsteady.

Illya nodded his head and took a seat on the chair across the room.

"Illya," she said tentatively, looking at his reflection in the mirror. "I would rather Napoleon not know what happened here."

"You have my word," he said.

It seemed lately all she did was divide the two men, asking one to keep secrets from the other. She felt badly about this latest secret, but she couldn't bear to look into Napoleon's eyes once he knew. She simply couldn't bare it.

"Napoleon will speak with Cynthia tonight," Illya said.

April's heart beat fast. It wasn't enough. Time was running out. They had a world to save and the justice of a woman who haunted her dreams. She needed to get into Calburn's good graces. Only then would he produce the watch that they so desperately sought. Only then would he pay for his sins. But getting close to Thomas Calburn was going to require a sacrifice on her part. One that would make the activities of the evening pale in comparison. Only then could the world be saved and the mysterious woman of her dreams avenged.

0000000

Cynthia sat back on the sofa, her eyes trained on Solo. He'd just told her why he was there. Now he saw raw anger building in the woman.

"So you were using me?" she said. "Is your name even Nathan Stone?"

"No, it's Napoleon Solo and I had no choice. We need that microdot."

"Why didn't you just ask him for it? Why did you go through all…" she raised her hands, her fingers splayed. "Why all this? The seduction. You and your girlfriend pretending to be my friend. You pretending to be my lover."

"It wasn't all pretence." Solo said weakly. "Not the part about us. And April is your friend."

Cynthia stared at him. She was angry and he didn't blame her. He'd betrayed her. Lied to her about who and what he was. He was still lying, but he didn't trust her so he'd left out the part about the murders and April's psychic impressions. He also didn't tell her about Illya or Mark.

"Everything you said to me. Everything we did. Did you laugh at me with your girlfriend? Did she tell you what I said to her about the great man I just met?" Cynthia stood, her eyes blazing. "Again Cynthia finds herself a first class fool. I give my heart to a man for the first time in years. And what did you do? You're no better than Thomas."

Napoleon was shocked at the outburst. Yes, they had a relationship, but he certainly didn't think she wanted anything serious. It was just sex, plain and simple, but now she was playing the part of the wronged woman. Still, he needed her help. They were getting nowhere on their own.

He stood, reaching for her. "Don't touch me," she shouted, backing away. "Don't ever touch me again."

Her face reddened and her eyes filled with tears. "It must make you feel real good to see me like this," she snarled. "Cynthia Skylar crying over a man like some hopeless teenager. Why does this keep happening to me? Is there something wrong with me?"

Napoleon shook his head. "No, there's nothing wrong with you. I…I had no choice. We need that microdot. We need your help. Your country needs your help."

Solo put his hands on her shoulder, pulling her to face him. He saw the sadness, the pain etched on her face. He had underestimated the woman, seeing her for the tough exterior she presented. But now he realized it was all an act and he felt sorry for her

"What make you think I believe your poposturous story," she said evenly "If he has something as important as you say, just ask him for it."

"And have him use it against us? That's not an option."

"So you want me to risk everything. Everything I value, for what? Some stupid microdot."

"It's important,"

"Why is it important?" she said, soft eyes boring into his. "What is on it that would make you betray me?"

"I can't tell you. You're going to have to trust me."

"Trust you. Trust you," she said, her voice lifting "The word means nothing to you. I mean nothing to you."

Napoleon knew he had to change her mind. If he didn't she just might tell Calburn out of spite. He cupped her chin and kissed her soundly. He felt her resistance lower as she melted into the kiss.

She broke the kiss. "I won't betray him. I won't do it," she said with a quivering voice. He was getting to her.

"What he has can be very dangerous in the wrong hands," he said softly. "We need your help. Can you do that, Cynthia?"

"No."

"Do it for your country. Do it for me," he said.

"And afterwards….do you realize he could leave me with nothing. That I could wind up without a single cent if I help you?"

Solo kissed her lightly on the lips. "It's important." He nuzzled her neck. "Once this is over we can be together. Go off somewhere." He ran his hand down the length of her body and a moan escaped her lips. "Do it for me." He kissed her once again. "Do it for me."

"Okay, you've got my help," she said quietly. "But I need to know one thing. Was it all a lie? The way we were together. Was it all a lie?"

He cupped her chin, looking deeply into her emerald eyes. "Not the way I feel about you. That was never a lie."

"But how do I know? How do I know I can trust you?"

"Let me show you," he whispered. Then he lifted her from the floor and carried her to the bedroom.

0000

In the end Cynthia agreed to help him locate the watch. She had access to all his properties, including his safes and special hiding places. She promised to check all these locations—discretely, of course.

Now he leaned on the counter in the kitchen enjoying the view of Cynthia washing the dishes. It was a breathtaking tableau—the beautiful Cynthia, her hair pulled back in a ponytail, wearing shorts and a white tee-shirt that emphasized her still girlish form. She seemed so innocent. He felt his heart warming for her again.

He came up behind her, recalling their night of passion the night before.

"You okay?" he said, nuzzling her neck.

She turned facing him. "I'm a little nervous. April's coming here and well… I don't know her. Not really."

"Nothing to know. She's nice. Very competent at what she does. She's the April you know with something extra."

Cynthia cocked her head to the side. "Did you ever sleep with her?"

He took a moment to form his answer. Technically they'd shared a bed many times on missions, or just because they needed each other. The touch of a woman was always something that appealed to him. It was why sex was so important. But with April touch was enough.

"Not in the biblical sense," he said. "Shared a bed out of necessity, yes. Never romantically."

"Can I trust you? You would tell me if…"

"I'm not going to lie to you. I've been with a lot of women, but never April. You have my word on that."

She returned to the sink. "Okay. I just needed to know. I mean…if there was something...I mean. I'm starting to fall in love with you and I don't want to be hurt. Not again."

He was about to respond when the doorbell sounded.

"Napoleon, why don't you get that? I'll be out when I finish the dishes."

It took seconds for Solo to see that something was bothering April. She avoided his eyes, focusing instead on Cynthia's apartment. He wasn't buying it. Something had happened.

"What happened?" he asked, getting to the point immediately.

April smiled, but he could see the smile was false.

"Nothing. Just tired," she looked around the apartment. "So where's Cynthia?"

"In the kitchen. Now, what's going on?" he demanded.

"I rather not talk about it. Okay."

He kept his voice low, pulling her close so that only she could hear.

"Something happened. I can see it in your eyes. I can…" he left the rest unvoiced, but he felt it to the fiber of his being.

"Not now, okay," she said, her eyes downcast.

He touched her face, his heart quickening as he saw the look in her eyes. Was it shame he saw there?

He would have pursued it further, but Cynthia came into the room, looking uncomfortably at the intimacy she saw between the two agents. Clearing her throat, she said nothing as she excused herself, returning to the kitchen.

Oh, damn, he thought. He'd spent most of the night trying to convince her that he wasn't lying and now she had misinterpreted his actions toward April.

"Go," April said.

He dashed into the kitchen and found her seething with anger.

"How could you? How could you lie to me again?" she said, her voice sharp.

"I didn't lie. You misunderstood. I was just…"

"I saw the way you looked at her. I saw the way you touched her."

"You misunderstood. There's nothing between April and I. You've got to believe me."

She turned facing him. "Why? So I can help you bury Thomas. Then what. You leave me high and dry. Go off and laugh about how foolish I was?"

He pulled her to him, but she broke from the embrace.

"Leave me with nothing but the clothes on my back." She slammed her hand down on the kitchen table. "Get out. Get out."

"Cynthia."

"Get out," she repeated.

Napoleon heard the door open and April was standing there.

"Napoleon, can you leave us alone?" April asked.

Solo ran a tired hand through his hair. He saw the fruitlessness of staying and trying to reason with the angry woman. "I'll be in the other room," he said, leaving the two women alone.

"Cynthia, look at me," April ordered once Napoleon was gone. The woman was standing at the sink, but turned, green eyes dark with anger and jealousy. April spoke, "I know what that looked like to you, but you're wrong."

"Am I?" Cynthia challenged. "I saw the way he looked at you. He's in love with you."

"No. He's my best friend. We're close, but there is nothing romantic going on. Never will be."

Cynthia harrumphed. "So you say. But I know what I saw."

April steeled herself. They needed her. Cynthia could be the key in finding the watch and putting an end to the senseless deaths of women. She needed to be honest with her. Anything less could leave them with nothing.

"Last night I slept with Thomas for the first time." She saw the look of confusion cross Cynthia's face. She continued. "I don't feel particularly good about what I've done. I've never been very good at hiding things from Napoleon. What you saw in there was him trying to find out what's wrong with me."

Cynthia said nothing. April saw the look of astonishment and something else. "But you've been here over a month. I know that you've been…"

"UNCLE has a drug," April said quickly. "I've used that up until last night."

She could see that she'd broken through, but Cynthia still didn't believe her.

"This case is important to me. The drug we use creates memories, not emotions. I need emotions to get through to him. I need for him to believe that I'm on his side. And then he'll show me what we need."

Cynthia smiled indulgently. "Do you really think whoreing yourself is worth it. That's what you're doing you know."

The words stung, but April kept her face impassive. She leveled her eyes at the woman. Even in the morning Cynthia looked perfect—every hair in place, makeup artfully applied as if Claude Monet himself had painted it. That she would be jealous of her seemed unimaginable, but she could feel it in the woman, see it in her eyes. But now wasn't the time to confront her. Cynthia could well be the only person close enough to Thomas to know where the watch had been hidden.

April made her decision. "It's more than that. Far more. You see…Thomas may have killed five women."

Cynthia shook her head. "Don't be ridiculous. Why would he kill anyone?"

"Because they rejected him. Because they weren't Sabrina Wellesley," she blurted out, and watched Cynthia's face go white. The woman leaned against the kitchen table, her hands shaking as she reached for a chair and sat. April quickly went to the sink and got a cool glass of water, giving it to the woman, and slipping into the chair adjacent to her.

"I've always suspected," Cynthia said, her voice shaky. It just seemed strange how they left." She took a sip of water.

"Cynthia, what do you know?"

"I know that Sabrina left and was never heard from again. I know that five other women disappeared in the last fifteen years."

"Then why didn't you say anything?"

"Because I needed proof. He's got connections everywhere. If I so much as said two words, my life could have been over and he still would get off Scott free."

"How long have you known?"

"I only suspected. Sabrina and I were pretty close. She would have told me if she was leaving. And the other women. They hadn't even packed their bags. I know because I've seen him throwing their clothes away. I ask you, what woman would leave and not take a single item?"

Both women sat regarding each other. Finally April spoke,

"We've got to have proof. Find out where he buried them and turn the bastard in."

"Easier said then done."

"Thomas asked me to move in with him," April blurted.

"April, do you know what you're doing. You can't just move in with him. If he is a killer…"

"Then I could be his sixth victim. But don't you see, if not me then someone else. It's my job to stop him before that happens. I'm the best qualified."

Cynthia nodded her head slowly. "You're playing a dangerous game."

"I know that. But time is running out. We need every bit of information we can get. I need Thomas to trust me. That means moving in with him and becoming a part of his life. It's well worth it to stop this monster."

"So you make him fall in love with you. Make him trust you. And then you destroy him?"

"Yes, if that's what it takes."

April tried to see beneath the layers of the woman who sat across from her.

"Is Illya a part of this?" she asked.

April thought of admitting it, but decided the less the woman knew the better.

"No, he's just the guy I'm seeing."

Cynthia looked down at her hands. "You won't be able to keep this from Napoleon. From what I saw out there he isn't going to like it. You're sleeping with the enemy, April. And he's a dangerous man."


	3. Part 3

**The Sixth Victim**

**By M. Willow**

Part Three

**Chapter Twelve**

A week later Napoleon found out where April was living courtesy of Cynthia. He wasn't taking it well.

"How can you do this?" Napoleon screamed. "How can you do this?"

April stood defiantly, hands balled into tight fist. Napoleon was seething not just because of April's living arrangements, but also because it took Cynthia accidentally slipping the information for him to find out. April was in danger, a danger created by Calburn and now she was walking directly into his trap.

Now they stood in the house he was using as a cover, arguing for at least an hour, and he wasn't getting anywhere. The female agent was determined to stay in Calburn's clutches.

"I'm not leaving," she yelled. "I'm going to nail that bastard."

"You'll leave, April. I'll make it an order."

He could see from the stunned look on her face that she hadn't expected that. He seldom pulled rank with either of his friends, but desperate times called for desperate measures. He was willing to do anything to save her. He couldn't bear the thought of Calburn, his hands on her, making love to her. He couldn't bear the thought of something happening to her because he wasn't there. The whole thing was driving him mad. And if Cynthia hadn't let slipped that she was going to _their _house for dinner, he still wouldn't know.

"Then make it an order," she shouted. "Do what you have to do. Tell Waverly. Tell the whole damn world for all I care, but I'm not leaving this case till it's over."

"Why? You can find out what you need without…without…"

"Becoming his whore? Is that what you were about to say?" April put her hands on her hips. "And what about what you're doing with Cynthia? You don't trust her. You don't like her. But you're not complaining about being in her bed!"

Napoleon felt like he'd been slapped. She was telling the truth, but what she was doing still felt wrong. No, he didn't trust Cynthia. Yes, he was having an affair with her to get information. Information that so far had yielded nothing but a bunch of empty safes. Still, he didn't entirely dislike the woman, just didn't trust her. She was dangerous like Angelique, like a lot of women he'd been with. It was an aphrodisiac—dangerous women, and he never tired of the danger.

But April couldn't say the same. She had high morals, raised a strict protestant. Solo knew she was no virgin, but for her, sex was something shared only in a deeply committed relationship. Sleeping with Calburn would cost her dearly in the end.

"It's different and you know it?" he retorted.

April stood glaring at him, then turned and headed out of the house. Napoleon wasted no time in following. She was nearly at her car when he called out.

"Claire…don't do this."

That stopped her. She turned meeting his eyes. He'd used her real name, something he rarely did. But he needed to get through to her. She didn't move for a second and then she was coming, her skirt rippling in the wind, her red hair cascading in waves down her back, and the soft eyes that no longer showed anger.

She stood before him, her hand coming up to caress his cheek. He closed his eyes against her softness, letting the scent that was uniquely hers transport him to another place. In thus place she was safe and he was her protector. But as he opened his eyes, he realized that he had no right to protect her.

When she spoke it was in a whisper. "Every night I dream about her. Every night I feel her terror. Every night I die a little more." She put her hand over her heart. "In here, where you can't see it. But when I wake up, I know I can do something. I can bring this monster to justice. Don't stop me from doing this, Napoleon. I know it's hard for you, but…but…I need your support. Please."

He leaned into her, their foreheads touching. He put his arms around her waist and she melted into his arms. Neither spoke for a few moments, each clinging to the other. It was a beautiful afternoon on the tree-lined suburban street. Napoleon could hear the sound of children playing; hear the roar of lawnmowers, the smell of grass mingling with the scent of the woman he held. He had to let her go—for her, for the women who died, for the women not yet dead. And for a diabolical instrument that could spell disaster for countless others.

"You've got my support, Claire," he murmured. "I'll make sure Waverly doesn't find out."

"But if he finds out…"

"Let me worry about that. He'll never agree and you know it. Waverly is too hung up on the high moral ideals of what UNCLE represents. He can barely stand it when I indulge."

"I guess you're right. He'd hardly like it if his first female agent…"

"Please don't say it. Let's just say that you're doing everything in your power to keep the world safe. Tens of thousands of lives are at stake."

She kissed him lightly on the cheek. "Thanks, Napoleon. You don't know what this means to me."

But he did. He could see it in her eyes now, the subtle release of tension.

She turned and headed for her car, then stopped and looked back at him. Their eyes locked and it was as if he was seeing her for the last time. She stood there, the sunlight casting ribbons of light around her, making her seem almost ethereal. And if he could have somehow stopped time, capturing the essence of that moment, he would have done so.

"Always remember that I love you," she said. And then she was gone.

**Chapter Thirteen**

Four days later the body of a woman was found in a makeshift grave. Her gravesite overlooked a serene lake on a property that Thomas Calburn once owned. And it was just as April had described it.

It all started one night when she had asked her lover to tell her about his favorite location—the place he went to seek solace, or to take someone special. Thomas had laughed at her interest, and then described a home he once owned that was built along a man-made lake. He'd since sold the property, but once it had been his favorite place to go to collect his thoughts.

That night she dreamed of the place with its weeping willows and fish that seemed to rise from its waters. She told Napoleon of her dream and he sent Mark to investigate. The body was found almost immediately using special UNCLE equipment that allowed the area to be scanned without disturbing the body. They would unearth the remains later once the bomb had been discovered. Anything less could easily alert Thomas. For now April had to console herself that at least one body had been found. She only wondered if it was the body of the woman.

Now the lovers lay in bed as the orange glow of the setting sun slanted across the bedroom. April turned, spooning into his body, feeling his arms tighten around her. They had just made love. An involuntary shudder coursed through her body as she recalled the evening.

Thomas had proposed, telling her she was the only woman he would ever love. He'd placed a ring on her finger, a symbol, he said of his undying love. "We'll be together the rest of our lives, baby," he'd said as the ring was placed on her finger. She had beamed, showing a happiness that came not from his proposal, but because her plan was finally working.

April shuddered to think of the women he had murdered. She wanted to kill him now as he lay next to her. But she had the bomb to consider and her commitment to uphold the law. Killing Thomas would only mean that she'd become a vigilante. Not much better than the man himself.

April slipped into a restless sleep. Later she heard the telephone ring, and Thomas left the room. She figured it was a business call so didn't bother to listen in. It was his custom to handle business whenever needed.

Later, she heard him slip back into the room. She didn't bother opening her eyes, hoping he wouldn't want to make love again. It came as a shock when April felt something shoved into her face and the familiar smell of chloroform. She fought for a moment, then slipped into darkness, her last thoughts were of Napoleon.

Illya had fallen asleep at his desk, the notebook falling to the floor. It was that sound that awakened him. He'd been going over his notes for the past two hours, finally giving in to the sleep he so desperately needed.

He picked up the notebook and flipped open the first page. April had talked in detail about her nightmare, but the woman had no description. She was as much a mystery as the murderer himself. That it was Thomas Calburn was without question. But who was Sabrina Wellesley?

Illya cursed the fact that Calburn had destroyed all her pictures. Not a single one remained. But Cynthia had described her once—medium height, light red hair, and brown eyes. She'd told them that April bore an uncanny resemblance to Sabrina, yet Calburn had never commented on the resemblance.

Strange, he thought, recalling the look on the man's face when he'd first set eyes on April. She was serving a group of customers in her earlier role of waitress. He'd come out of the back room and headed straight for her. Illya had been too far away to hear the conversation, but April had said that he wanted to know if she could sing. She told him a little, and instantly was promoted to singer.

But why hadn't the man reacted to her appearance if she looked so much like Sabrina?

"April's hair is the only thing that is different," Cynthia had said once before April dyed her hair red. "It's much darker."

Illya leaned back in his chair, recalling another conversation he'd had over a year ago in the Victorian house.

Suddenly he stood, seeing the truth that had always been there.

**Chapter Fourteen**

April felt the room shift as a wave of dizziness overtook her. It seemed only moments ago that she'd been asleep. But now she was somewhere else.

She opened her eyes and stared in wonder at the unfamiliar room. The room was decorated with touches of pink---a pink lampshade, a pink rug, the fireplace with candleholders, their pink jewels dazzling in the subdued lighting of the room. And she was lying on a bed, completely naked.

The sudden sound of the telephone nearly made her heart stop.

"Oh, my God," she said. "It's happening."

With shaky hands she reached for the telephone, placing the receiver to her ear, she immediately heard the song that had haunted her nightmares.

"Why?" she asked as the room seemed to darken.

"Because you're mine," she heard him say. "And no one else will ever have you."

00000

There was something wrong with April. Napoleon could feel it deep in his soul. It had started as a dull, nagging feeling and he knew she was in trouble. He'd driven through the streets then, his mind racing with the possibilities of her death. He knew she wasn't there the minute he drove up to the Calburn estate. He didn't have time to check every property the man owned, so he'd gone to the only person who could tell him where April had been taken.

Cynthia stood there now, the soft light of the living room highlighting the coldness of her face. And the gun that she held.

"So everything we had was a lie," he asked, his voice low, remembering when she'd said something similar to him not that long ago.

"Not in the beginning," she said slowly, shifting her weight as she leaned against the back of the sofa. "Back then I imagined you and I having a life together. I was falling for you. I even believed we would get married. Start a family. But you betrayed me, now you'll pay."

"You're wrong," Napoleon said. He eyed his communicator and gun sitting on the table next to Cynthia. She'd taken them from him the minute he entered the apartment. He'd been stupid, racing in without thinking. And she had been ready, literally greeting him with the gun. He had acted like an amateur and now April might have to pay with her life. His only hope was to convince the woman that he had feelings for her.

He softened his voice, pasting on a flirtatious smile. "We can still have those things. It's not too late."

Cynthia cocked her head to the side and shrugged. "There was a time when a man told me that. I was young, foolish. I gave up everything for him. I made him a rich man and he made me a fool. Year after year waiting while he ran from one woman to the next. And then one day he killed a girl and I became an accessory to his crime."

"Sabrina?" he questioned.

Cynthia raised an eyebrow, her face settling into a smile. "Sabrina is not dead. But she should be. But no, I had to listen to that brat of hers and save the bitch. Well, I won't make that mistake again."

Napoleon couldn't believe what he was hearing. Of course the woman was dead. April had seen it herself. Sure, it was in a vision, but her visions were always accurate.

Cynthia laughed. "I see you don't believe me."

"And why should I? You're standing there holding a gun on me. How do I know you're not the murderer?"

"It doesn't matter. Soon you will be reunited with your precious slut and I'll be left a very rich woman."

Napoleon started forward, but Cynthia raised the gun and he halted his movements.

"Why?"

"Well you see my original plan was to kill Thomas then use my phony will to obtain his money. I was going to claim self defense by telling people I had discovered that he was a murderer. No one would have questioned it once I told them where the bodies were buried."

She paused, the cat-like smile widening on her face. "When you showed up, I amended my plan a little. You see, I actually thought we had something. I figured you and I could be together, spending all that beautiful money. I even found out where he kept that silly microdot. But no. You had to have April."

Napoleon softened his voice. "I told you there is nothing between April and me. I only want you."

She cocked her head. "Do you think I'm that stupid? Do you?" How about I tell you what I saw a few days ago when I just happened to be in your neighborhood."

"Let me explain…" Napoleon started, knowing she probably meant the display he and April had put on in front of his house. Another rookie mistake, he thought ruefully.

"I don't care to hear it. I know what I saw. And just think I was on my way over to tell you that Thomas has the microdot in the basement safe of a house he just bought. Dumb old Cynthia actually thought you had feelings for her. But not anymore. Never again. Now I look out for myself."

"Cynthia, put the gun down." He stretched out his hands, his palms splayed as if in surrender, his eyes never leaving her face. With any luck, he could get close enough to take the gun. He just had to keep talking to the woman. Reason with her.

"Put the gun down. There's no reason to do this. April means nothing to me."

He moved forward.

"Stop or you'll never see her alive again," Cynthia rasped, her eyes narrowed, gun held straight in her hand.

Solo stopped, his blood ran cold. "What did you do?" Solo demanded. "What did you do?"

"I paid Thomas a call a few hours ago. I told him whose bed his lover had been in. I could tell he didn't want to believe me. But he finally did. You see he may not want me as his wife, but he trusts me implicitly. I have a track record you see for accuracy. I'm the one who told him about all those sluts."

"You're just as much a killer as he is," Napoleon said tightly. "You set up all those women for what? So you could continue rubbing shoulders with the rich and famous? Spend money you could have earned on your own?"

"So you think it's that easy. You see as a woman I would have been ignored. Oh, they would let me play as long as it amused them, but that's all. So yes, I intend to have it all. It's mine. I earned it and I'm not waiting around for some floozy to take it away."

Napoleon felt the rage burning inside of him. Cynthia continued. "Besides, this is your fault. You just couldn't keep your hands off her. I thought once I told you she was shacking up with Thomas you wouldn't want her. But no, you wanted her even more."

"You won't get away with it. I have people…"

"Who won't care one way or the other. All they want is their precious microdot. But you won't have to worry about that. I'll give it to them happily and they'll leave me alone once I do."

Napoleon relaxed his stance, hoping to get a chance at the gun. But first, he needed for her to tell him where April was. "So what's the plan?"

"You're the lover who comes charging into Thomas's' house to rescue your lover. Thomas kills you in a fit of rage, followed by his fiancé and then himself."

The woman laughed." What, April keeping secrets from you again? Well Thomas proposed to April tonight."

"If you know what's good for you," Napoleon said, ice in his voice. "You'll tell me where she is…"

"Oh, I'll do better than that. I'll take you to her. But first I need to prepare a little drink for you."

Napoleon raised his eyebrow in puzzlement. Cynthia continued. "Oh, it's quite good if I say so myself. It will knock you out long enough for me to get you to the house. You'll wake up just in time to die."

"And what if I won't go under your terms?" he countered.

Cynthia's brow furrowed. "The truth is you would walk through hell for her. You were going out of your mind thinking about a life without your precious April. And now you'll do anything to have even half a chance of saving her."

There was no point in denying what Cynthia had said. He had only one way of finding April.

"I'll do whatever you want."

0000

Illya was going over the files he'd retrieved about April's past. He did so quickly, expecting a signal from his partner any moment. Napoleon had called earlier telling him that April had disappeared and that he was on his way to Cynthia to hopefully get information on where Calburn may have taken her. Solo promised to activate a homing signal if anything went wrong. Illya fully expected that something would go wrong. Now, Illya desperately looked for the missing piece and he was convinced it was in the file of April Dancer.

It hadn't been easy. He'd had to use every trick he knew to break into the confidential files. They were extensive, providing complete information privy only to Waverly. His heart pounded as he skimmed through them, finding one passage that stood out.

_April Dancer born Claire Birchwood to a rich industrialist and a mother who had designs on the stage. Parents briefly separated when the wife left her family for one year. She returned and disappeared with her daughter only to rejoin the family a few days later._

"Disappeared," Illya mouthed, flipping the page. His heart nearly stopped when he saw the picture of April's family.

The father was tall with jet-black hair and a strong jaw. But it was the mother that made Illya's heart skip a beat. April was almost an exact replica of her mother: the same brown eyes, the same facial shape, and at that age, the same red hair. He couldn't imagine why it had taken him so long to figure it out. Only a conversation with the female agent at the Victorian house had led him to the truth. He recalled April telling him how much she looked like her mother.

It had always puzzled him why April would have visions of someone she'd never met. April's psychic abilities fed on her emotional connection to the person and was limited by distance. Illya could still recall how she hadn't been able to help catch Lisa's killer, yet she was able to save his life when he'd been imprisoned behind a wall at the Victorian house. And later she'd been unaware of the danger Napoleon faced in the hands of an impossible double. So how then could she see a woman she'd never met? A woman who'd apparently died nearly twenty years ago? Now the answer was clear. April was seeing her mother. A mother who'd run away to be with Thomas Calburn twenty years ago.

Illya started when he heard the distress signal. "It's happening now," he said, racing to the door.

April felt strong hands caressing her face. She opened her eyes and saw Thomas sitting next to her on the bed. He was dressed in a tuxedo, his hair slicked back.

"What have you done to me?" she asked, realizing she had no way of reaching UNCLE. Thomas had stripped her naked. She didn't have one devise available to her.

"Nothing to worry about, baby. I just gave you a little something to take the edge off. How do you like your new home?"

April looked around the room. It looked like a child's room, the shade of pink somehow juvenile.

April stared at Thomas. The wild eyes of an insane person, she thought. Her head hurt and she was dizzy. She recognized the symptoms of being given knockout drops. Whatever he'd given her would make it almost impossible to get away. Right now she didn't think she could even get off the bed. But she had to remain calm.

"I don't understand," she said.

"You will, baby. You will. But we have the rest of our lives for that. We'll get married in a few days and then you can bring your little girl here. This is her room you know."

Thomas stood and retrieved a pink satin and lace dress that had been lying on the chaise. He grabbed a bottle of perfume and dabbed some behind her ears. The room was immediately filled with the jasmine scent. Then he looked down at her, his eyes moving slowly down her nude body. April prepared herself for his assault. She closed her eyes, distancing herself from what he was about to do to her. It was the way she had tolerated his touch over the past weeks.

She was surprise when she felt the satiny material slipped over her head, his arm supporting her as he dressed her. The dress would be her death dress, the one from her vision, she realized. She fought back wild panic as he stood back to regard her. Again his eyes traveled down her body, but she saw no lust in them. Instead he regarded her like a painting, one done by the masters.

"I had this dress made especially for you, baby. It's an exact replica of the dress you wore all those years ago. Now we can finally have our engagement dinner. Just the two of us. Not like the last time when Cynthia came barging in with your little girl."

Thomas smiled. "So how do you like what I did for your little girl? This is her room. I'm afraid I haven't gotten to the rest of the house, yet, but it will be done soon. It's gonna look exactly like it did all those years ago. You know their was some damage from the fire, but it's being restored by experts. It's going to look good as new."

Calburn's eyes looked sad as if he was recalling a horrible moment. She was about to speak when a wave of nausea swept through her. "I feel sick."

"It's nothing. Probably morning sickness. I'm afraid I tampered with your birth control pills. You'll have to forgive me, but I want to start our family right away. I've waited a long time."

April didn't have time to consider what he'd just said. She had to convince him to let her go. "Thomas, you've got to listen to me. I'm not Sabrina. My name is April Dancer and I'm an agent with the U.N.C.L.E. Now I demand that you let me go."

"I know about your job with UNCLE, Sabrina, but that's no reason to lie to me."

"Thomas, you need help. My name is April Dancer. I work as an enforcement…"

"Shut up," he shouted, slapping her across the face. "I told you I forgive you, baby. Your lies. Your lover. All of it so we can finally be together."

April bit back pain, the sting of the slap making her vision dim. "But, I'm not your fiancée. You're confusing me with Sabrina. I'm not Sabrina."

"I remember the first time I laid eyes on you. You came into my club…"

"I'm not Sabrina," April shouted. "My name is April Dancer. I'm with the U.N.C.L.E.".

"You were so beautiful," he continued. "I knew then that I wanted to marry you, And then you told me about your little girl. Remember. You told me that Cynthia was bringing her to meet me and then you were going to divorce your husband for me. I still remember how we danced, the way the candlelight made you glow. But I hated you. You had betrayed me by not telling me you were married. And I wanted you dead."

He looked at April, his expression pained. "I'm sorry for that, but I know you forgave me. It's just that…I was so hurt when you lied to me. If it hadn't been for Cynthia…I would have killed you."

Thomas took her hand. "I'm sorry baby. I should have forgiven you then. And then we could have had a life together. I could have been a dad to your little girl."

April listened in stunned silence. She hadn't seen a little girl. Nowhere in her visions had there ever been a little girl. But a sudden memory pulled at her. Memories of a little girl who stood in the door way, mesmerized by the flames. She remembered the fear that the house would burn, that mommy had told her never to play with fire. That she'd watched a man wrap a scarf around her mother's neck. April started to shudder as she watched Calburn, his eyes glassy, as if he were in a different time. His voice became tight as he spoke.

"I spent years trying to find you, but I never could. I didn't even know your real name. All I knew was that you were my Sabrina. But I never gave up. I kept looking and I found you sometimes. But later, I discovered it wasn't really you. They were all imposters and had to be killed."

"Oh, God, oh God, oh God," April said as the truth dawned on her. How could she have forgotten? How could she have forgotten being eight years old and watching a maniac strangle her mother?

It all came back to her now:

_It was a grey, cloudless day. The hottest day of the year and the little girl stared out the window of the car. Claire could see the house now, grey against the darkening sky. There was a lake nearby that reminded the little girl of a story her mother once told her about a lake with flying fish. April wondered if this lake held fish that could fly, but the many weeping willow trees prevented her from getting a good look. Now they were traveling closer to the house and she was in awe of the sheer size of it. It was the biggest she'd ever seen, but there was something foreboding about it, something that terrified her even as she tried to not be afraid. _

_Earlier her mother had told her to be brave, that they were about to enter a new life, one away from the abusive husband she had come to loathe. So the little girl stifled her growing dread, the little something she felt whenever bad things were about to happen._

_Soon the blonde lady was ushering her out of the car and into the house. She listened as the woman spoke._

"_You're going to meet your new daddy. He's the nice man who bought this house for you and your mother."_

_April tuned her out as she focused on her growing sense of unease. In her mind's eye she could see two people dancing, the soft music of her mother's favorite song playing as the man sang along. She knew she was having a vision, a vision of something that was happening right now. She felt the blonde lady pulling her up the stairs, her voice calm as if she didn't know what was happening. But then Claire knew the vision she was having couldn't be seen by others, for the blonde lady was normal. She wasn't like Claire who could see things. _

_Now they walked down a darkened hall, but Claire walked in two worlds—the one that the blonde lady lived in and the other where she was watching her mother dance with the strange man. In that other world she could smell perfume, see the light of the candles as they seem to dance around the couple. She was so afraid._

_And then she saw them. The man with the scarf in his hands and her mother's horrified face as the scarf was slipped around her neck. Claire screamed, only then realizing that her two worlds had collided. For the blonde lady was standing next to her and she was just as much in shock._

"_Momma," she screamed and saw the dark eyes of the stranger, his face cast in the glow of candlelight._

"_Get out," he shouted, his voice deep, raspy. But she couldn't move, not even when the blonde lady tried to pull her from the room. Not even when she saw the terror in her mother's eyes. Claire knew she had to save her mother. _

"_Cynthia, stop him. Please stop him," she shouted. But the blonde lady still hadn't moved. She stood their utterly still, the look on her face telling the little girl that she wasn't entirely displeased by the drama unfolding in front of them. Claire knew she had to get through to her. It was her only hope._

"_Cynthia, make him stop. You've got to make him. He's killing my mother...please."_

_Claire struggled against the woman, her screams like that of a wild thing, begging the woman to let her go, to please let her go. And then she saw the blonde lady dash into the room and charge at the man, knocking him to the floor, the candles falling as her mother struggled to get up. Claire saw fire lick the ceiling, but by then her mother was pushing her out the door. _

"You tried to kill my mother," April said, her voice harsh, still recalling the night her mother almost died. Her hatred for the man sitting in front of her was overwhelming now. If she could, she would kill him outright now, but strength deserted her, leaving her almost boneless in the bed.

Now Thomas spoke, his eyes almost feral as he looked at her. "Then one day Wilford told me about the remarkable woman he saw. How she looked like my Sabrina. But I knew who you were the moment he told me. I knew it was you coming back for our love. And I used everything I had to see your face again. It didn't take long. You were coming out of a restaurant and I took a picture of you. After that I worked on a way to get you in my life. It was my brother that gave me the idea. He was so self-righteous, bragged about his invention and how it was so great that he had to destroy it. He told me even UNCLE couldn't be trusted with it. And he told me about your job there. It was then that I knew what I had to do. I killed Wilford with an undetectable poison and then I forged the note to make it appear that I had his little invention. I knew you were only looking for an excuse to come back and I provided it for you. Now you're mine."

Thomas stood and gathered her in his arms, lifting her from the bed. By now she was past caring, her mind numb to the monster who carried her. She was scarily aware of being carried down a darkened hall lit only by candles. The house smelled of mildew in spite of the overwhelming scent of fresh paint. She could hear soft music coming from a room at the end of the hall. Then Thomas opened the door and a million candles came to life. They were everywhere--on the floor, over the mantle, on tables.

"_I was dancing with darlin_," Thomas sang as he stood her on unsteady legs. He wrapped his arms around her and moved them in time to the music, April's weakened body leaning into him. Her eyes darted around the room as another part of her nightmare was recalled--the smoke and how terrified of the fire she was.

"Please, you must see reason. Let me go," she said. But he continued to move them around the floor, his voice rising and falling as he sang. Time was running out. April took a deep breath, calling on the strength she scarcely had, and shoved him backwards. Thomas braced himself as he nearly fell to the floor, his eyes wild with anger.

She pulled the long dress around her as she darted between the candles, picturing the entire house going up in flames. The room seemed to spin as a wave of dizziness sent her crashing to the floor. On hands and knees she crawled, feeling his presence, knowing he was coming closer and that she couldn't possibly move fast enough. She heard him sing as he moved near. _I was dancin' with my darlin' to the Tennessee Waltz …_" She spared a glance backwards and saw him standing at the doorway, an almost half-smile on his face, the scarf held taunt between his hands. His eyes seemed to have changed, somehow becoming crueler, hardened, revealing the hatred he held deep within.

"No one walks away from me, baby. Not even you."

And then he was coming.

Napoleon stood rooted to the spot, the room spinning around as nausea swept over him. Minutes ago he'd awakened in the car to find the gun trained on him. Now they stood in the foyer of what looked like an old mansion in the process of being restored. He could smell fresh paint, but the area they stood in looked like an old abandoned building with peeling walls, a tattered rug, and a spiral staircase leading to the darkness of the next floor.

He looked at Cynthia. She was standing a little in front of him, her back to the staircase. From her stance he could tell she didn't have much experience with guns. She held it like an amateur—a person just a little afraid of its power. It would probably be easy to take it from her under normal circumstances, but this was far from normal. Right now standing was proving difficult. Cynthia had been smart to nearly disable him with the drug she gave him. Still he would have to take the chance and try and get the gun away from her if he hoped to survive this and save April. True, he had been able to activate his homing devise just before he passed out in the car, but he had no way of knowing how long ago that had been. Illya might arrive in a few minutes or an hour from now for all he knew.

"Listen to me Cynthia. You've got to let me go upstairs. We've got to stop Thomas."

"You know I did that once and paid dearly. This time I think I'll pass."

"Why kill all of us if it's Thomas you want?"

"I can't afford loose ends. I'm an accessory to murder. I've no intentions of going to jail."

Cynthia's hands dropped just a little, tiny lines of tension etched around her eyes. She was hesitating. People had no idea how difficult it was to kill a person until they were called upon to do it. She was as much to blame for killing all those women as Thomas, but she'd never actually killed them, just set them up to be killed. Solo knew he could use her hesitancy to his own advantage.

Napoleon sagged, letting his body fall partly to the floor. He watched as Cynthia stood stunned. Then he was up, moving with a sharpness he didn't know he possessed. He was a desperate man as he crashed into her, sending them both to the floor. Now they struggled, she holding on to the gun and he trying to wrestle it from her. She had the upper hand. He was weak, hardly able to keep his eyes open, the drug still holding on to him. In no time she had positioned herself and slammed her knee into his groin. Solo rolled away from her, the paralyzing pain halting his efforts to even move.

He looked up into her cold eyes as she rose from the floor. Cynthia cocked the gun, her hand on the trigger with cold detachment. Solo steeled his nerves, his eyes narrowed as he looked at the woman holding the gun. Now, he saw no hesitation in her, no remorse for taking another's life, just raw anger. He would have no second chance at the gun. April's vision had been wrong. He would die now and leave her to die at the hands of Calburn. And it had been his fault. He'd made decisions that even a rookie wouldn't have made.

Solo took a deep breath, meeting his killer's eyes. And then a shot rang out and Cynthia fell to the floor.

"About time you got here," Napoleon said teasingly at the Russian who stood at the door.

Illya scanned the room, then walked over to the downed woman and picked up her gun. He checked her pulse then nodded at Solo.

"She's still alive. I doubt she'll wake up any time soon." Kuryakin paused, his face furrowed in concern. "You okay, Napoleon?"

Solo let out a breath. "Drugged. She gave me something to get me over here. Made me weak."

Napoleon stood on shaky legs, moving past Cynthia and taking the gun from Kuryakin. "I've got to get upstairs. They're up there. You get downstairs. Cynthia said the bomb is down there in a safe. Find it. Disarm the damn thing. Remember April saw fire in her vision. If it hasn't already started, it will soon. We can't have that thing going off."

"No," Illya said, grabbing Solo's arm and looking at him with concern. "I'll get you two out and come back,"

"There's no time Tovarish. That's an order."

Illya hesitated only for a second then turned and headed for the lower level.

"You be careful," he called out as he disappeared into the darkness.

Napoleon slowly started his ascent up the stairs, fully aware that he was probably walking into a trap. No way had Calburn missed the sound of the gun firing.

00000

April shuddered as she regained consciousness, feeling the calloused hand around her neck.

"I will kill her if you take another step," Thomas rasped, tightening his hand around her neck.

It seemed only moments ago when Thomas had strangled her into unconsciousness with the scarf. She'd clawed at his face; his wild eyes the last thing she saw before she blacked out. Now she was inexplicably back in the room, the ghostlike music still playing. And she was looking into the face of her best friend.

Napoleon was standing near the door, gun in hand. He seemed dazed, his eyes a little unfocused.

"Drop the gun," Thomas commanded.

"No," Solo said, his voice deadly. "You're going to let her go. And then we're walking out of here."

"What. After you came all this way for that damned watch," Thomas laughed. "Well, you came for nothing. There was never a watch or a bomb for that matter. Clever if I have to say so myself. Now drop the gun or I'll finish her now."

April strained to get her voice, but the hand around her neck made it impossible. Instead she communicated with her eyes. _Let me die. Let me die and get out of here._

But Napoleon remained riveted to the spot. His eyes met hers, the apology clear. He blamed himself, April realized recalling her vision. And he wasn't going anywhere.

"Let her go or I'll kill you right now."

"She'll be long dead by the time you're able to shoot. See how easy it will be for me to snap her neck. Imagine how it would sound, her neck snapping like a twig."

April tensed, thinking how easy it would be for him to break her neck in a simple movement. He had her head in a headlock, his hands situated in a way that could easily snap her neck. "Like a twig," he had said.

Napoleon advanced and Thomas turned her neck just slightly, his intentions clear.

April knew it was up to her. Napoleon was prepared to sacrifice his life for hers. She recalled the vision with clarity, knowing that he had elected himself to be the sixth victim, but the vision had not been clear. Either one of them could be Thomas's' last victim, or both of them since she was in no condition to get away from him in either case.

April knew she had to act, and act fast. At this point she was banking on the ability to change the future. Illya had been right. There was absolutely no reason that both couldn't live if she played her cards right.

April made a small mewing sound in her throat and sagged as if she'd passed out. She felt Thomas loosen his hold on her.

"Drop the gun," Thomas shouted again. "Drop it now or watch her die."

She heard the gun clatter to the floor, felt Thomas release her throat even more, and then she made her move. With everything she had, with the last ounce of strength she possessed, she slammed her body backwards, causing Thomas to lose his hold on her. And then she heard shots ring out---one, two, three. Thomas frightened eyes looking at her as he staggered into the candles. April watched horrified as the fire engulfed him and traveled quickly up the curtains. Then Napoleon had her, nearly dragging her towards the door, then shutting it, as Thomas's' screams filled the air. He was dying in the blazing inferno.

Now they were out and Napoleon was trying to get her to stand. But she couldn't. She'd used the last bit of strength to stop Thomas. Solo picked her up and started to carry her down the hall. He didn't make it far enough. He crashed to the floor, his breaths coming in short gasps. Then Napoleon was leaning over her, his brown eyes sorrowful.

"I'm so sorry," he said. "My fault." He tenderly caressed her face. But by then his voice sounded hollow and her world dissolved as she lost consciousness.

00000

Illya moved frantically through the room, flashlight in hand. He'd searched nearly every crevice of the large room and found absolutely nothing. There had been a safe, but it had been empty.

He moved on, checking the bricks around the fireplace, then on to the desk, and the sofa where he pulled pillows off, piling them high on the floor.

A few minutes ago he had heard gun fire. He'd wanted to race up the stairs, but his duty was finding the bomb. April's vision had been pretty clear about a fire. And a fire would cause the bomb to go off with tragic results—ten whole blocks of innocent people. People who were now sleeping safely in their homes, unaware of the danger they faced.

He looked around, sweat dripping from his face, pulse racing as the nagging feeling that he was missing something returned. And then he saw a door. He moved across the room, kicking himself for missing something so obvious. The door was hidden in a shadowy part of the room, but was easy to see. Only panic had kept it hidden.

Now he opened the door, fully expecting to find another safe, but what he saw would forever stay with him, for there lying on the floor was the body of a woman. The woman was dressed in a pink, satin dress. Illya could tell from the condition of the body, and the cloying smell of decay, that she had only recently died. From the looks of her, he would approximate her death at a little over a month ago, which was the approximate time April was having her vision. Illya didn't doubt that he'd found the sixth victim.

Illya looked up, concentrating the beam of light from the flashlight around the room. It was empty except for the woman and two plates. Illya shuddered to think that the woman had spent her last moments of life alone in the basement.

He was about to search the room further when he was struck by a moment of clarity. His friends would die. He'd already heard a gun firing, knew Thomas was probably dead or the man would have shown himself by now. And he could smell smoke over the musty scent of decay. His mind reeled off the specifics: Napoleon was injured, too weak to get April out. Which meant his friend would die by her side. Solo by himself stood a chance of getting out. But he would never leave April.

Illya cursed Wilford for inventing the bomb. He cursed Thomas for putting them all in this situation. And then it hit him, like a light switch going on—there was no bomb. It had been destroyed as his brother had claimed. It was the only answer. Waverly had said the brother was a benevolent man who came to them because he had invented something so diabolical that he didn't even trust UNCLE to keep it safe.. So why then would he turn it over to his brother, knowing what kind of man he was? Even if Wilford had convinced himself that the bomb was safe because it had been disarmed, he still wouldn't trust his brother. He wouldn't leave it to his brother no matter how much he loved him. The whole thing had been a set-up from the beginning. Thomas had somehow found out about April and then invented a way to get her in his life. The man hadn't reacted to her uncanny resemblance to her mother because he had expected it.

Now April's vision became clear in his mind. They had been wrong. The decision hadn't been between saving April or Napoleon. It had been between saving his two friends or searching for a devise that could end the life of countless people.

Napoleon lay on the floor next to April. They were both going to die, he realized. He held her wrist, feeling the strong pulse that let him know she was still alive.

"I'm sorry April. We saw it all wrong. Illya had to decide if he should save us or get the bomb out." His body convulsed into a coughing fit.

Napoleon looked up, seeing the thick, black smoke filling the hallway. And then what looked like an angel stood before him, his hand outstretched.

"Come on, we're getting out of here," Illya said.

"No, get April out first."

"Don't worry my friend, we're leaving together."

Illya pulled Napoleon up then lifted April effortlessly off the floor.

**Epilog**

"Mr. Calburn hatched quite a plot," Waverly said, looking between Illya and Napoleon. "I regret that more wasn't done to prevent this tragedy. Had I known…" His voice trailed off

Napoleon knew that was as close as Waverly would ever come to an apology. He nodded his head in acknowledgement of the effort. They were all expendable, the old man had said once, but Solo could see the relief in his eyes when his ragtag team had returned to the fold.

Now Solo sat worrying over April who'd just regained consciousness when he and Illya had been summoned to Waverly's conference room. He figured she would be alright once whatever Thomas had given her left her system. And he was fine—at least physically. Most of the drug was out of his system.

"And what of Miss Skylar?" Waverly asked.

They had been able to rescue the woman from the burning building, but she had finally died from the gunshot wound. But before she died, she'd made a death bed confession. At least the part she knew about. She hadn't known about Calburn's plan to get April. Nor did she realize that Claire and April were one in the same. She was able to reveal the location of the bodies of the five other women, but she knew nothing of the woman Illya had found.

Illya and Napoleon were were certain the woman in the basement had never performed at the club. She'd only been dead about a month and Calburn hadn't hired anyone in the past six months which meant his insanity was branching out to include random women. Had April not made the ultimate sacrifice to stop him, countless innocent women could have been killed. The man was well on his way to the type of notoriety only Jack the Ripper enjoyed.

Solo was saddened to realize they would never know the identity of woman because the body had perished in the fire along with Calburn. Solo and Illya believed that this woman had in fact been the sixth victim and April's vision had been a combination of the past, the present, and the future, mingled together.

As to the bomb, the fire itself and Calburn's confession put their fears to rest. It had never existed. Wilford Calburn had destroyed it as he claimed.

""It seems Miss Skylar was involved in provoking Calburn to kill innocent women. All so that she could retain his money and power." the Russian said.

"So she used her tactics to provoke Mr. Calburn into killing his latest lover, Miss Dancer," Waverly said, his eyes boring into Solo. Waverly was made aware of the whole sordid mission the minute they had arrived at UNCLE headquarters. Napoleon wondered what his punishment would be. He was prepared for the worse.

"What remains unclear, gentlemen," Waverly continued. "is why the lady in question didn't just kill Mr. Calburn outright years ago?"

"Simple," Napoleon said. "Power. And lots of it. If Cynthia had killed Calburn, she would have been left rich, but utterly powerless. Calburn had connections from corporate leaders to members of society. Connections that would have ended the minute he died." Solo paused. "No. Having him alive served her better. And she still had access to all his money."

"And she could always resort to her usual tactics in eliminating her competition ensuring her place in his life permanently." Illya chimed in.

"It was an ingenious plot." Waverly said. "One that served her nearly twenty years. In spite of Mr. Calburn's desire to have Sabrina back in his life, he trusted Cynthia with everything he had. I daresay he loved the woman even if he would never admit it. Even to himself."

Waverly said the last part, his eyes lingering on Solo. Napoleon squirmed in his seat.

"Cynthia made a habit of getting close to her adversary. Then she would simply tell Thomas the women were opportunist and Thomas took care of the rest." Illya said.

Waverly shook his head.

Napoleon rubbed his forehead against the coming headache. "The only thing she hadn't figured was Sabrina's daughter making an appearance. That was the part Thomas kept to himself. She never knew who April was until it was too late."

Illya looked at Waverly. "Yes. You see she knew where Sabrina lived. Thomas had made the mistake of seeking Cynthia's help in locating Sabrina. Only Cynthia knew her real name, having secured that bit of information when they were friends. It seemed she liked the woman enough to save her life once, but she kept her whereabouts a secret from Calburn for her own selfish reasons."

"And Miss Skylar had no way of knowing that Sabrina's daughter had changed her name and joined UNCLE," Waverly concluded.

"Nor did April remember anything about the night Thomas tried to kill her mother," Solo said.

"The mind is indeed complicated. The event was so traumatic that Miss Dancer blocked the memory," Waverly said.

"Calburn's goal all along was to get to Miss Dancer," Illya said. "He hatched a plot using his brother's invention, knowing we would have to get it back. There was never a bomb."

Waverly tapped his pipe lightly on the table. "And how is Miss Dancer?"

"She's still in the infirmary, sir," Illya answered after giving Solo a brief look. "She's awake, but not talking as of yet. The doctor said she will be fine…in time. This entire thing has come as a shock to her."

"Well perhaps some time away from here would be good for her. Perhaps she would like to spend time with her family."

"No." Napoleon said, recalling conversations he'd had with the female agent. "Her family has indicated that they are not interested in contacting her."

"I'm aware of that Mr. Solo, but still…considering the circumstances."

"I'll talk to her." Solo said, but in his heart, he knew it would be best for April not to see her family. At least for now.

"Ah sir, if it's okay---" Solo started.

"Yes, yes. See to Miss Dancer," Waverly said "But...uh..perhaps you gentlemen would like to change first."

Solo looked at the blond, his hair darkly streaked with soot, his shirt barely hanging from his slender frame. They must indeed look a mess.

Both men stood. "Of course, sir."

"And Mr. Solo, until further, notice Miss Dancer will report directly to me."

Solo nodded his head. He could see the look in Waverly's eyes. This was his punishment for keeping information from him. And Waverly was right in doing it. Solo had made mistakes. He'd let his emotions rule his actions. It was unforgivable.

"Yes, sir," he said gratefully. And then he was out the door.

One hour later, Napoleon sat on the edge of April's bed in the infirmary holding her hand. She hadn't said much, but Napoleon could feel the damn about to break and prepared himself.

She looked at him, her eyes misty, near the point of tears. When she spoke her voice was barely above a whisper.

"I could be pregnant," she said.

It was something Solo hadn't considered, or rather he hadn't wanted to consider. It was the double edge sword of being a woman, he thought ruefully. On missions, he'd slept with his fair share of women. For the most part, it was one of the perks of the job. But for a woman, in the same line of work, it was different. The penalty for sleeping with the enemy was not the same. If she were pregnant, her career would come to an end. And she would suffer the shame of being an unwed mother. It was the 1960's and there was still a stigma about that.

"I'm so ashamed," she said, a tear falling slowly down her face.

Napoleon used his thumb to wipe the tear, and then moved closer to her. "You've done nothing to be ashamed of. You've been nothing but one of the best agents I know and I'm proud to serve with you."

"I allowed myself to be duped. I should have seen it. Some psychic I am."

"None of us saw it. And your vision was symbolic. There was nothing there to let us know his real plan. You had no way of knowing, April."

"And now I suffer the consequences. And if I'm pregnant my child will suffer too." She dropped her head. "I will be a disgrace to the service, to my family, to me. My child will be raised without a father and for what? The bomb didn't even exist. We could have arrested him without going through all of this."

Napoleon cupped her chin, his eyes meeting hers. "You stopped him from killing. He would have gone on if not for you. And know this. I will never…ever let you go through this alone. If you're pregnant the child will have a name and we'll raise him together."

April smiled through the tears. "Are you asking me to marry you, Napoleon?"

"If it comes to that."

April patted his knee. "I'll have the hatred of every female in the universe, you know. Could be a threat worse than than Thrush." And they both laughed. "But seriously," April said, again meeting his eyes. "I appreciate what you're willing to do and give up in more ways than you'll ever know. But I would never put you in…"

"You listen to me. You're my best friend. I don't care about what I'll lose, because I've already gained so much by having you in my life."

"It wouldn't be…it wouldn't…" she stammered.

And Solo saw her blush. "We'll have separate rooms," he said quickly. "You'll have my name for the child. And we'll figure out the rest later."

April laid her head on his shoulder. He pulled his legs into the bed so that they were side by side against the raised mattress, his arm encircling her.

"Thank you. You're the best friend a girl could have."

They sat in silence, feeling the warmth of the sun as it spilled through the window of the infirmary. Napoleon closed his eyes as he felt April relax in his arms, her breaths becoming even indicating she was finally falling asleep. Soon he heard a door opening and another presence entered the room.

"Thank you, Tovarish," he said as he felt his friend step near.

"You're welcome, my friend."

Solo opened his eyes and looked into the sky-blue eyes of his best friend. Then the Russian pulled up a chair and all three slept.

Fin

_Read the entire Victorian series on my website. _

_As always, I'm inspired by those who review my work. I would simply adore hearing from you. _


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